


Deliver Me

by iszevthere



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Complete, M/M, recovering drug addicts, twelve-step
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-10-02
Packaged: 2018-02-07 16:22:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 36,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1905720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iszevthere/pseuds/iszevthere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Naruto and Sasuke know they shouldn't date each other in early sobriety, especially if they live together. Oh well. This is the uncensored version. The censored version is on FF.net. I do not own Naruto. Full disclaimer inside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

(Full disclaimer: I do not own Naruto. This story is set in multiple cities that I have lived in, and their descriptions are based in my experience. The twelve-step meetings are procedurally accurate. The names of meetings, characters in them and identifying details are fake. No harm nor disparagement is intended with any description of anything in the story. There is a lot of product placement and pop culture references in this. I do not own any of it or receive royalties; the products and references simply seem to fit the characters.)

-Sasuke-  
I am not miserable every day of my life. I do not constantly have anxiety attacks. Moving here was necessary, not desired. I grew up in a suburb of Seattle, on the Eastside. I moved an hour north, to be here. It’s a lot smaller. It’s larger than the small town I used to be in, in the summer. That town had only five hundred people. I miss my old city a lot. The public transit system was okay, there was stuff to do and I never worried about people breaking into my family’s house. I don’t really miss my family, though. They never visit me here.

I live here now. I thought it was going to be a quiet town where I could get my life together. Figure shit out, take the world by storm. Wrong. Every mile, there is a large liquor store. Every surface every five feet has gang-related graffiti. Every other step is broken glass, or glass you accidentally break when you step on it because you couldn’t see it. Businesses shut down left and right. The three restaurants of an internationally famous fast food chain, all three in this city within a mile of one another, all have had broken ice cream machines for months and broken soda machines for weeks. The soda machines all have the same handwritten “Out of order!” written on torn loose-leaf paper taped across their center. Customers are offered free water instead, with an apologetic, tired or even embarrassed smile.

Trash litters the too-tall, unkempt grass near the sidewalks. Roadkill and used condoms announce themselves on the cracked sidewalks. Dive-thru coffee joints with bikini baristas dot every half-mile. These ones aren’t the normal ones, they’re fronts for prostitution. The cops raid and shut any down, and a replacement is up in a week. Other prostitutes are often seen with customers in darkened parking lots at night. Drug deals are common. I get asked every day, usually at six in the morning when I’m waiting for transit, if I have crack, pot, or heroin, or materials widely known to make them. I don’t. It’s fine to be out at four in the morning usually. When the sun is setting, the problems begin. One cannot wear any bandanna here, as it indicates gang membership. This is a loud, poor city. My apartment complex is one of the few in the north part of the city. There’s another complex half a mile from here. It’s even more run-down. The rest are all trailer parks and motels with low weekly rates.

Youth violence is so common here. It’s not even safe to be here at noon. Teenagers pull knives on each other. I stay in my apartment as much as I can. I really only go out for a few things: the doctor, groceries, fast food sometimes and to refill my transit pass. So far I am okay. Nobody violent lives in the three complexes that I know of. Mine is unusually large: it has a hundred and twenty apartments in it, stacked like boxes. The others are not so. I did have a neighbor for awhile who was slightly unhinged. He was often drunk, angry and had mental problems. He soon moved out. The couple I refer to as the sex couple promptly moved back in. They’ve moved into the same apartment, the one next to mine, three times in nine months. The walls are so thin, I often hear them. And the neighbor across the hall, who unloads her dishes at eight at night. The walls are thin. The neighbors can probably hear me playing music on my stereo or listening to the radio at night. I need that to sleep. They likely smell my cooking of cheap, frozen meals. I smell theirs.

The street lights never flicker here. Maybe it’s because this is a poor, rough neighborhood, and the street lights make people feel more secure. I do, with them. My original city’s street lights did flicker. It was really annoying in the thick morning fog that defined late autumn and all winter. The lights going out made everything so dark. Here, it doesn’t happen even in winter. Maybe the street lights flickered and nobody cared because of the low crime rate, but here they do. There are creeps here and the lights do deter them mostly. That, and the real possibility of a fatal car crash.

I live on one of the most dangerous highways in the state, possibly the country. Pedestrians and especially bicyclists are hit and killed all the time. Jaywalking across the six-lane highway is common, and responsible for most of the accidents. I have jaywalked only once. A fighting dog was guarding a homeless guy, and a stranger warned me. There was no way I could pass. We looked at each other, and waited for the cars speeding sixty-five to eighty miles an hour to cease, and ran across the road. I never want to do that again. A sidewalk, cracked and covered in broken glass, road kill and trash, separates me from this highway with asshole drivers.

And in this all, there is one of the most disturbing things that have happened to me: a few nights ago, I think I heard a murder. I don’t know.

The noise from the highway covered most of it up.


	2. Chapter Two

-Naruto-  
When I first started acting, I was told that my voice needed to echo off the walls. The whole cast was told, really, but I felt like it was addressed only to me. I was so in love with live theater. I was part of it! My voice was, and still is, loud. In a role I played when I was fifteen, I got too comfortable onstage and my voice barely reached the middle of the stage. My character was a pot-smoking (the director told me, but used a lot of euphemisms) hippie out of the 1960s, and it was the night we were being filmed for the DVD. I remember blushing onstage as I realized my voice wasn’t carrying. When I watched the DVD, I cringed. I hate to say it, but the audience would have been forgiven for forming an impression I was intellectually impaired (feel free to throw rotten food at me for being so insensitive). I spoke louder. My voice carried, and the audience laughed uproariously upon realizing my character was a pothead who was smart, kind and high. It was a principal role.

In the nine years I acted with the company I did, only thrice did they hold auditions onstage. It was to hear who had the biggest voice and the strongest stage presence each time—whose voice echoed and who belted out song lyrics, who acted while speaking so loudly. Teenagers to adults, is the answer. Many greeted each other over various noise, then got yelled at by casting directors. “This little girl is trying to audition!” Enya played on a stereo. The child cried. The brat was cheating! We sing a capella for the auditions, and she brought a stereo and CD! She didn’t get the role. Three years later, when she was ten, she landed the lead in a show and people bawled every night at the ending when she “died.” I did. Even three years in theater allows a lot of growth. Ellen was a brat offstage for years. She probably still is. It is not because of the four-year age gap that I think that. Ellen was also my neighbor growing up.

That was the second time. The first, was actually my first audition. I was scared to death but was cast. My voice carried. The third was for a Shakespeare play, “Twelfth Night.” I was Viola’s understudy. I’d been with the theater six years by then. The lead actress never missed a performance. Nancy’s still my hero. She later had a breakdown and stayed in a mental hospital. Nancy had confided in me what her illness was: back then, it was still called multiple personality disorder. Theater is actually a small community. Through the grapevine, I heard that she’d moved to a nearby state with her sister, Karen, to be with family. Karen and I were in our first play together. We laughed a lot.

There’s auditions soon for a play I want to do, but actually the play doesn’t matter. Which one it is, anyway. The theater does! It TRAINS actors for Broadway! I am so excited and nervous. I have my song all picked out. No pop songs here—it has to be one from a musical, preferably Broadway. Mine is. I haven’t found a monologue though. My first theater did cold readings. Not here! Finding a monologue, and one that hasn’t been done to death, is the hardest part of audition preparation. It’s all I talked about in different meetings for a week. That was three meetings. I go to three, sometimes up to five, meetings a week. Twelve-step ones. We talk about what’s going on with us. Theater nerds in the meetings made themselves known to me and encouraged me! People are so great! No matter what a person does for a living, from theater to construction to waitressing or working in the legal field, we’re all here for the very same reason. There’s twelve-step meetings for all kinds of things, but I go to certain ones for a certain thing.

“Hi, my name’s Naruto and I’m an addict. I haven’t had any heroin for over seven months.”  
“Hi, Naruto,” the room rumbles. One of the men stands up. “Do you want your keytag and a hug?”  
“Yes!” Our voices echo in the big room.

I live with a few other addicts in clean and sober housing. I get along with a few of them. The rest are completely batshit and we’re always snapping at each other. They need to lighten up, anyway. Nate screamed at me this morning. Asshole. Last night, I put his hand in a bowl of warm water when he was sleeping. I wanted to know if the result was an urban legend or not. It wasn’t! He pissed himself. It was just a test! He never leaves me alone, so I decided to use him as a test subject. I hope the fucker relapses, if he doesn’t stop lecturing me. I hate roommate interviews, but I think a new guy could be worth it.


	3. Chapter Three

-Sasuke-  
It’s normal, Shikamaru told me, to start squirming in meetings at some point. Usually between months three and nine. People stare at the clock, and if there is no clock they squirm and fidget. “What time is it?” grownups ask in something that could be a child’s whine but for the embarrassed whispering. Some people touch their faces or hands, or fuss with their hair. I have a feeling that a lot of people would be toying with their phones if they could. There is no clock in here. I’m trying to be still. I wore the wrong underwear to this meeting. My sexy boxers were the only ones clean ’cause I forgot to do my laundry. I’m not getting laid by anyone anytime soon besides myself.  
“I don’t care that he’s married and that he’s my dealer!” A girl with unkempt hair and a shitty dye job of bright blue wails. Tears pour down her face. I notice for the first time that Sakura’s dye job, and her hair, are flawless. “He’s going to leave his wife and kids for me!” She looks maybe sixteen. Sometimes really young people come here, or maybe she’s eighteen and I don’t know. I am sitting close to her, and near Tsunade and Sakura, who have the biggest are-you-fucking-kidding-me looks on their faces. They’re not even trying to look polite. They look at each other. “He loves me!” the girl insists. “We’re having sex. That means he’ll leave his family, and be with me, and he said he’d pay for me—”  
Sakura shakes her head so slowly. No pity, just are-you-fucking-kidding-me. She starts to say something, but someone rings a bell to shut everyone up and indicate the meeting has started.

“Welcome to the Friday night meeting of Rowan Tree South. My name is Sybil. I am an addict and your meeting secretary.”  
“Hi, Sybil,” the room drones. The meeting is on Rowan Avenue North. Trees are everywhere. I think all that was mixed up so the meeting could have a name. There are sixty-five of us here tonight, jammed into this church room near the kitchen. I think when it’s not filled with junkies trying to turn themselves around, it’s a meal hall. I am not paying attention to the meeting tonight worth shit.

“Will someone please read ‘Who is an addict’.” It’s never a question, always a statement.  
“Hi, I’m Sakura and I’m an addict.” I turn around to see her as we all greet her by name. She has pink hair, but other than that seems really…professional. I found out recently that she’s a paramedic, a NRP one. She went through a lot of school and training, and she and Tsunade save lives, this person told me. I hope to never meet them in a professional capacity. Tsunade is a trauma surgeon with extensive experience in treating stab wounds and gunshot wounds. “Thanks, Sakura.” Oh, I wonder if tonight is a speaker meeting. I forgot. I brought an apple as a snack. Often, I dart out to someone’s car without having eaten dinner. I get rides from different people every week, and rides from different people to the food bank every other week. People in this program are good, but I wish I’d have some continuity. At least I get to go.  
The last meal I ate before switching to a food bank was an egg-and-sausage filled roll, microwaveable. I called some people that night and at 2:45 PM the next afternoon, Joel L. drove me to the city food bank. He talked to me. We waited. He drove me home and helped me unload the food. Whenever I’m driven to the food bank, I remember the first time. There’s always first-timers here. Always at least two hundred people in the first four hours.

\---  
I sit very, very still. I’m scared they’ll turn me away. “Do you have your ID and an old bill?” Joel asks, eyes on the road.   
“Yeah.”  
“Good. Look, there’s no shame. Lots of people need this, especially considering the economy. If you want to keep it a secret from the people in the program, that’s fine.” He drives slowly in the parking lot. “I’ll wait with you. I used to come here with my kids.” We walk towards what used to be a warehouse, according to Joel. The brownish-gray paint is peeling and the slate-gray roof shingles look faded from too many washes. “Talk to the lady in the white shirt with the gray hair. I’ll get us a spot on the bench.”  
The lady smiles as I introduce myself and hands me a clipboard and a pen. Forms to fill out. I walk slowly, observing the people on the long bench and try to find Joel. It’s overwhelmingly white women in their mid-to-late thirties with multiple young kids, about age ten. “Sasuke!” I plunk down next to him and scrawl away. Children squabble. “My kids stay with my parents Tuesday through Friday mornings. They adore each other, and it makes having two jobs easier.” I nod and sign the forms, then stand up. “They’ll give you a number.” I am number ninety-one, provided by a slip of paper with permanent marker on it. It is provided to me after I hand over ID and the old electric bill with my current address on it. My ID has my old address. The bill is current, and they are fine with that. I sit with Joel as someone calls for thirty-nine, forty and forty-one to line up on the sidewalk, over a loudspeaker system.

A little girl who can’t be more than ten looks over at me. “It’s rude to stare,” hisses her mom. Guilt floods the girl’s brown eyes and she blushes. She put sparkles on her cheekbones, and the contrast only shows in the sunlight against her light brown skin. I grin and lean towards the girl. She grins back. “It’s okay. My parents used to yell at me for glaring at people right up until I was eighteen. They’d say exactly what your mom said, only I wasn’t glaring. I look like that normally.” The girl nods, then turns to her mom, hands on her hips. “Mom, the big boy is right. See, he doesn’t care.” A lock of the mom’s blond hair falls forward as she glares at me. The daughter sticks her tongue out. I discover they are number forty-five when the walk off to line up on the sidewalk.

Joel talks as we wait for nearly an hour. He jokes he’s telling me his life story. It started with me asking “So you’re a single dad?” Like so many others, life has dealt him a rough hand. He speaks without pitying himself or blaming his ex-wife for overdosing and dying. Sixty, sixty-one and sixty-two are called. After several children look at me furtively, I conclude they’ve never seen a Japanese-American person before. “My kids would never do that,” Joel groans. “They are polite. They say hi and ask for a story. I’m trying to have them not bug people.”  
“How many do you have?”  
“Four, and I am so proud of them.” Proud parents talk a lot about their kids, I notice. Easily twenty minutes at a time. I ask questions out of politeness. Eighty-six, eighty-seven and eighty-eight are called. People roll shopping carts overflowing with food to their cars.  
“…and ninety-one, please line up on the sidewalk.” I stride over and again show my ID and bill. “Show it to the lady inside at the counter, then you’ll get your shopping cart.” The middle-aged lady sits at a computer inside the cold building and smiles at me.

“Name?”  
I spell out my name slowly for her, indicating the first and last name. She thanks me.  
“Is there a middle initial?”  
“No.”  
“Okay, Sasuke.” She pronounces my name wrong and points behind me. “Walk all the way to the end. Oh wait!” I turn. “Any food allergies, diabetes, I’m guessing you’re not pregnant…”  
“No to all of the above.”  
“Okay. Have a great day!”  
I walk over and a volunteer yanks a cart to me. “Thanks. Is this…”  
“It’s all for you, buddy! Supposed to last you between breaks. Were you told you get to come every other week?”  
“No…”  
“You do! Need any help getting this to your car?”  
“No, I think I got it.” The cart is heavy and so full of food. Joel and I pile it in his trunk. He pulls a box from the bottom of the cart, the tray near the wheels. It’s so much food…I get to eat it all…I haven’t had access to this much food since before I moved here. Joel helps me unload it from his car. We place it on the kitchen floor.  
“Thanks.”  
“Thank you! You let me be of service! I’ll see you soon.”

I organize the food. There is so much bread. So many items I can freeze so they don’t rot…I pile them in the freezer till it’s full. The fridge has at least three items on each rack now, the cupboards are filled and there’s still more food. It crowds the counter and the floor. 

The first thing I ate that night was dinner. It was a can of condensed chicken soup and I was so full afterward. A simple can! It was just soup, but I felt like royalty. After battling hunger brought on by being far below the poverty line, I had help. That night, warm condensed chicken soup was food fit for a king. The can of food bank root beer I drank as a dessert was the finest wine. I would not die of hunger. Too poetic of a description? Not if you’re on the brink of starvation.

That was six weeks ago. Tomorrow will be my third time going to the food bank. Matthew M. is driving me because he’s going too, but for the first time. Or I think he will. He said he would, we arranged it, but he hasn’t answered my follow-up call. I’ll call again tomorrow, and if it turns out he’s not, Joel said he would. Joel said he’d have a hard time though because this Wednesday is busy, but he refuses to let me starve. Matthew does not yet have thirty days clean. Addicts with little clean time are generally much less reliable than those with, say, six months or more. Those with multiple years tend to have their shit together. It is they who drive me to meetings and the food bank. They all insisted. I never said anything.

I have been number ninety-one. I have been number one hundred and seventy-seven. What number will Matthew be? How far apart will our waiting periods be? I will wait as long as he needs me to. After all, he has the car. Hopefully we won’t bore each other. I hate being bored. It tends to be a long wait at food banks no matter what number you are.

\---  
Someone else is reading something now. Did this become a twelve by twelve or something?  
“Bye, Sakura!” people whisper. “Bye, Tsunade!” Both medical professionals rush past me, out the door to save lives. They are on call at least once a month, and their phones constantly go off. I overheard once that Tsunade is sponsoring Sakura, and clearly they work together at the hospital. The stress is hard to imagine. They must have a lot in common. It’s weird, but I think since Tsunade is a trauma surgeon sponsoring a highly skilled paramedic, Sakura must be sponsoring an orderly or something. The people who wear scrubs, the creepy green uniforms. I hate doctors and the like. I worked in a hospital once though. The drugs made it less scary.


	4. Chapter Four

-Naruto-  
I’m supposed to be exhausted, but I’m so fucking wired that I won’t sleep for a few more hours probably. When rehearsals are going to run long, someone sets up a big pot of hot coffee beforehand, and real cream and sugar. And tea. And there’s pitchers of ice water. People pack meals in lunch boxes or Tupperwares, mostly sandwiches and microwave meals. If the cast is small enough, somebody cooks a real meal and reheats it for everybody at breaks. I acted in a show with fifteen cast members total once. One lived five minutes away walking, and fed us lunch and dinner. And breakfast a few times. People slept on the couch, all three beds (two to a bed), and the remaining eight people on the living room and bedroom floors. It’s rare that even needs to happen, though.

This cast has twenty people in it. It’s fantasy romance. It’s about a society of faeries and their societal class structure. That’s what the playwright says. Basically it’s four categories of male, female and other-gender faeries. There’s the Faery Council, who decides if you’re good or bad, which decides your class. The bad ones are turned into human, mortal and they age. That happened because they performed bad acts, and they are the lowest class. Their kids, which were taken away from them, are still immortal and youthful but because of their parents, are second-lowest class. They assist the higher-class faeries who have the nicest costumes, the prettiest songs and they get to dance. I’m a high-class faery. I’m on drugs and don’t really care that there’s a forbidden romance going on between a high-class lady faery and a low-class mortal who used to be a faery. His kid is my assistant. I’m nice to him, just high most of the time. The character, not me. My character gets serious in act two, the entire act, because it’s sad.

I’m really enjoying the play, mostly because my role is big. I have two entire songs, one per act. I dance in the second act, but with the rest of the high-class faeries. I’m learning a lot. One of the high-class faeries sings and dances all her lines. In the script it repeatedly states she comes from a line of well-respected musical faeries. She doesn’t get any solos. Just all-cast numbers and dances, which she likes.

I had one coffee at rehearsal tonight, and a sub sandwich (a local shop caters). One coffee, at five PM! It’s two o’clock in the morning and I haven’t been the least bit sleepy! “Believe it!” I shout on the phone to a recovery buddy. He’s an insomniac. He laughs. I sit at the kitchen table. “Heroin would help me sleep!”  
“Oh, shut up,” he chuckles.

“Yeah, shut up, Naruto,” one of the guys grumbles. My roommate raids the fridge every midnight-or-later for a snack. The house is quiet, so he can hear my friend on the line quite clearly. My friend shouts hi. My roommate snatches my cell phone and whispers hi back. “Still. Not. Tired,” I inform them both in a quieter voice. “Make yourself tired,” they sigh in unison. “I’ll see you at the meeting Friday,” my buddy says and bids me goodnight. Nahum, my roommate, chows down on pita and hummus he made earlier. He has almost three years clean. I have eight months tomorrow.

“Hey.”  
“Huh,” I respond, thinking of drinking a Dr. Pepper from the fridge.  
“Kiba taking you to Rowan Tree this week?”  
“Yeah.”  
“Oh. I was thinking if you needed a ride, I could take you. I’m taking this guy Sasuke. Taking more people in the car is better for the environment.”  
“Yeah. Name’s not familiar.”

“Black hair. Asks all the unreliable shitheads for rides to meetings and food banks. Black hooded sweatshirt, never smiles, your height, really thin…”  
“Nahum, Rowan Tree has sixty or more people at it every week.”  
“He sits in the front row when Joel takes him.”  
“Nahum,” I groan at the lack of outstanding description.  
“Well, he’ll be here this week. You’ll meet. You’re speaking, and he’ll be in the front row next to me and Joel.”  
“Okay.”

Four hours later, I sit in a somber room, listening as three people sob over people who died this week. One from suicide. He was new here. One from liver failure caused by years of drug use, despite having ten years clean on the day he died. The last one had two months clean and OD’d right before he was supposed to do a court-ordered UA. I don’t know what to say or do. We sit still. I stay for another meeting. Two people died from that one. There are no tears from the people who talk about them. One quotes poetry, something about a moment lost.

This disease kills people. Every week, at least one person from these meetings dies. Five people from a single meeting is a pretty high number. I wish each time today I could offer comfort. Later tonight, I have to go to rehearsal.


	5. Chapter Five

-Sasuke-  
I trudge up the stairs and down the hallway. The apartment lock accepts the key and I hear the reassuring sound of the deadbolt sliding back. After dropping my keys in pocket, I open the door and walk in. Exhaling, I notice that the silence is welcome this time, not loud. I lock the door and shuffle into the kitchen to toss my keys onto the counter. When I have guests, they look at me as I lock the door behind them. I point out that this is a poor, rough neighborhood and “I’m not locking the door to keep you in, I’m locking it to keep people out.” At least once a week, I hear some fuckhead try the door late at night, then pound the door in frustration because the deadbolts hold well. Go rob somebody else. The first couple of times, I was scared. Now it just wakes me up. I get back to sleep fine.

Alone at last. A sigh of relief. Sometimes I feel that way after a meeting. I fish through a drawer absentmindedly for my chopsticks. My brother dropped off a care package of his cooking, which is pretty good. Not as good as our mother’s, but good. I pop open a Tupperware and don’t bother to heat it up. I need a shower. After I finish eating this, I will definitely shower. I stuff my face without a care in the world, then pout as my chopsticks hit the bottom of the plastic container. Do I have enough hot water for a shower? I shower every six days. It cuts my water bill down. I rinse my chopsticks under a thin stream of water. They’re real ones, not the disposable wood kind. The food bank gave me a gallon of water recently! I used it for cooking, soaking dishes, making tea and coffee, and even just to drink! I don’t remember how much my water bill lowered, but I was happy. I pull my shirt over my head with one hand and head towards my bedroom. I open the door and shed the rest of my clothing. It all lands on a semi-folded heap on my bed. I have slept alone in it for a year now. Has it been a year? Not quite. My lease expires soon. The hot, heavy pressured shower water pounds my back. I wash myself, my head finally clear. Every six days when I shower, as I rub the soap onto myself and rinse it off, I become aware of how bad I smell. The soap makes the contrast clear. I wash my hair last. I haven’t had the money for a haircut since before I moved here. My hair falls in diagonal slopes on both sides of my face to my chin. It is greasy after six days, like the rest of me. The shampoo runs down my back after being rinsed from my hair, and I smell good. Warm showers are relaxing.

I don’t use the apartment thermostat, even now as winter settles in. I came here in the beginning of winter, anyway. Putting on a jacket is just as good as a thermostat, and free. Other people use their thermostats, and the walls are so thin here that I feel the heat just fine. I twist the shower knob and the water ceases. I dry myself carefully. Steam follows me out of the bathroom. It is eleven o’clock at night. Again I will not sleep tonight: insomnia. And a conversation—two, really—with Kiba. Then there’s a man named Naruto. He’s my age. Kiba is five years older than us, twenty-nine. He gave me a ride to and from homegroup tonight. Nice guy. I pull on some pajamas and sit cross-legged on my bed. Kiba had given a good description of himself, his car, and his dog, Akamaru “whichever one you see first, it’s us.”

\---  
I opened the passenger door and Kiba grinned. We said hey as I buckled my seatbelt. I wondered what the black hulking mass in the back seat was and jumped as a cold, wet snout pressed to the back of my neck. “Hi, Akamaru.” Sniff, sniff. I turned around to pat his head.  
“He’s a full-contact sniffer.”  
“I haven’t showered,” I blurted.  
“Good. He’ll like you even more. He’s a rescue Rottweiler and the biggest baby on the planet. 130 pounds and he loves to snuggle. He thinks he’s a lap dog.”  
“He weighs as much as me.”  
“I bring him to meetings. Rowan Tree’s not my homegroup though.”  
“Oh.” My hand bumped into a strange material Akamaru was wearing.  
“It’s a service vest.” So he’s a service dog. “He’s good at comforting and taking care of relapsed addicts. He can smell and sense emotions. He won’t leave your side when you’ve relapsed.”  
“Good dog to have.” I made out a quickly wagging docked tail, then realized his whole butt was wagging.  
“Yeah.”

The conversation turns into a mini-first step share for us both. Kiba snorted crack as a teenager in high school to escape parental pressure for good grades and peer pressure to have sex. He began dealing crack upon high school graduation and lost his virginity three months later. By the time he finished his first two years of college, he was cooking meth. He was twenty years old. He was soon arrested, and plead guilty. He served two years in prison, his sentence having been commuted from the standard five years. Commuted sentences in Washington State are common for drug addicts on the condition that they complete court-mandated rehab and go to twelve-step programs. After Kiba was released, his parents helped him receive private tutoring in chemistry. Around the same time he joined N.A, he was admitted into Eastern. He lied on his application about his criminal record. Eastern apparently never looked into it, somehow. He got a degree and has been clean ever since. He now works for the government, developing and researching biochemical weapons. Kiba didn’t quite say that, but…he said it without saying it. He’s engaged to a lady named Hinata. She goes Nar-Anon, is “a saint,” and pretty damn understanding. She’s not happy about his tattoos. “Tattoos just mean you’re in N.A.,” I protested. Kiba burst out laughing.

My story was far less interesting, mostly because I am too embarrassed to go into detail beyond, “I have been doing drugs since the age of eight. I started with high doses of children’s painkillers and escalated. Although I have a criminal record, my parents used their wealth to circumvent the law. They cannot make the charges go away, but they can make it so I never serve a day in prison.” Kiba thought it was interesting. “It’s a speaker meeting tonight. Naruto’s chairing. I’m sitting up there to support him…plus I’m secretary. Just got a call last night. It’s only for tonight.” Naruto, from what I recall, grins a lot, and is loud and obnoxious. And hot. It’s unusual for me to be attracted to men who aren’t white drug dealers. My dealers. I exchanged drugs for sex. It’s the only kind of sex I’ve ever had, except for my virginity loss at fourteen (boyfriend. White people often thought we were brothers since duh, all Japanese-Americans are clearly related. Not!). So Naruto…is an exception. I think of sex when I look at him. “Naruto’s riding with Nahum and Joel.” I nodded and looked out the window as Kiba parked in the church parking lot. We unbuckled our seatbelts and opened our doors in unison. Akamaru was good on the leash. The three of us walked calmly inside.

August F. stood in the poorly-lit doorway. The shy man greeted us each with a smile and a hug. Akamaru hugged him back, almost knocking him over. “Going out of my comfort zone as my new service position,” August explained once Akamaru’s paws were back on the pavement. “Welcome to Rowan Tree.”  
“Thanks, August.”  
“Being the greeter would make my skin crawl,” I muttered to Kiba. “Great! We’ll put you down as alternate greeter at the next business meeting!” he joked. As usual, the room was packed. It buzzed loudly with the sound of so many conversations at once. Kiba and I each greet or small-talk with at least ten people before getting to seats that are open. Kiba is more well-known. With me, I think they’re just being polite. I don’t know. I don’t care. Shikamaru told me to start talking to people as a way to become part of. When I have enough money, I’m moving away from this desolate, squalid—“Welcome to the Friday night meeting of Rowan Tree North.”

“It’s a speaker meeting tonight. One person talks for the duration of the meeting in front of everybody about their life, drug use, how they got to N.A. and they thank their sponsor and the homegroup,” Kiba whispered to a newcomer with bloodshot eyes. Kiba and Akamaru walked up to the table in the front of the room and sat beside Naruto. Akamaru disappeared from view after a few minutes—he lay on the floor, sleeping. I plunked myself down beside the newcomer, who tried to smile. He shook with withdrawal and wrapped his arms around his knees, curled into a ball on his chair. “We’ve all been there,” someone consoled him. “If you cannot afford a Big Book, please see our treasurer Stacy after the meeting.” Stacy was new at being treasurer, but she was good at it. She raised her hand and waved so people could see her.

“Hey, let’s go out in the hall a second,” I whispered as people started the readings. The newcomer didn’t look so great. I took his cold, clammy hand and put my other arm around him, helping him walk. “Here’s the bathroom when you need to puke. Talk to people after the meeting, or throughout…just in the hall.” The drooling phase had begun, along with the coughing. He wiped his mouth on his sweatshirt sleeve as his eyes watered. He nodded and we walked back inside. His hands had become hot and sweaty.  
Together, we plunked ourselves down in our seats again. As he curled up into a ball and wrapped his arms around his knees, I reached up to touch my face. It was not until then that I realized I had a small zit near the middle of my nose. Ugh. With the reflexes of the teenage boy I was in puberty ten years ago, I scratched. Not the greatest choice. I leaned back and plucked a tissue from the box on the counter in the back. I blotted my face quickly, then tossed the tissue and listened. “And Naruto has agreed to share his story tonight.” The two addicts on either side of Naruto turned to face him. Bookends. Uncannily, Naruto and I sat up straight at the same time. He probably took a deep breath. I did.

“Hi, my name is Naruto and I’m an addict.” I tensed. I felt like I did a few nights ago, when I was trying to open a bag of food bank rice so I could avoid the four boxes of food bank macaroni from that one trip alone. The bag of food bag rice was knotted too tightly. I shouted, hissed, and swore in English and Japanese. No one heard me as I shouted and slammed the bag on the counter helplessly in my anger. Five quick times in a row with varying pressure. The fifth time was with maximum pressure. That was when the plastic split so fast and the bag exploded, rice rushing everywhere. All over the counter. Handfuls on the floor. A few grains escaped underneath the stove coils onto the drip pans. “Fuck!” I had screamed in frustration and panic. I scrambled to clean up every last grain from everywhere, and put them in a Tupperware. The floor had been recently cleaned. The counter had not. I cooked the rice anyway. The day before, I had slept twelve hours because I was so stressed out. Such sleeping was becoming more common.

“So, this is a really big meeting tonight, so we didn’t do proud time. I won’t let that happen! Stand up if you have time you’re proud of!” As one, we rose. My legs were shaky. After a beat, eighty people sat down. Some rustled. The newcomer re-curled himself. I squirmed. Naruto rubbed the back of his neck with his hand as a deep silence rippled through the room. He looked up as the silence burrowed itself in and made a home in the room, the audience. Audience? Maybe. Community? A little bit closer. He looked down again and—shuffled papers? Yes. He wrote out his share. Smart.

“Hi, I’m Naruto and I’m a heroin addict.” I’m a Percocet addict. We have some brain damage in common, then. Percodan is sometimes a substitute for me. More often, when I can’t get high enough, I mix the two together. I should be dead. He clears his throat. “I’m also an orphan.” I can practically hear hearts breaking. Mine is, and I’m not mushy. “I’ve been an orphan since I was three.” He looks down at the papers. “I get ignorant questions from people when I say that and it leads to questions about my race. Don’t be assholes. Let me tell you if I want to. Now I want to. My parents died in a car crash when I was three. The brakes hadn’t been fixed, and it was a head-on collision with a speeding teenage driver. I was still in a car seat. Being secured in the back seat so well might have saved my life. The paramedics took me…I hardly remember them. I stayed in the hospital overnight and the social worker took me the next morning. I spent the next eight years in and out of foster homes. I expected to always be shipped over to someone else. They got tired of me, I guess. When I was eleven, I went to five foster homes in one year. I ran away from the last one and wound up in a group home. It’s not an orphanage. I was eleven and I hated everyone: social workers, doctors, the other kids in the home, my parents for dying and not having any family, and random strangers in the street. There were too many kids in the group home, always getting fostered and being sent back. One kid would officially get adopted and five new street rats would come in the next day.

“Some of us aspired to go to child prison—release our pent-up rage and get sent away to a place with three hot meals a day, adults who were paid to watch you all the time, you had to go to the juvenile detention educational annex…you got somewhere to sleep at night. All this, every single day. If you were bad enough in the outside world, you got to stay in kiddie prison until you were twenty-one. I never got to go there, no matter how many times I ran away from foster families, skipped school or fought. Heroin didn’t even land me there! No, I turned twelve, got into heroin and got adopted.”

I noticed an open seat up ahead and snuck into it. I could see him better now. His face glowed with emotion. I turned back briefly. Someone else was sitting with the newcomer. I nodded my thanks. Naruto had turned orange. We both…don’t turn red really, because we’re—“All I know about my bio-parents is that they loved me. Their marriage was interracial. My biological dad was Japanese. My biological mom was Dutch for the most part. I got teased a lot for being mixed-race in my life. Still, even now, I get from white people, ‘So what kind of Asian are you?’ Just so casually. You don’t even care.” He narrowed his eyes. Mine were widened. I’ve never had anything said to me ‘what kind.’ I was ashamed for wondering that about him.  
“I was a wild child, a huge troublemaker, a rebel. I had no friends and struggled in school because with every new family, I had to switch schools. A new kid came to one of the schools. He got me into heroin. I was twelve. He was fourteen. A dealer is never really your friend. I didn’t know that. The needle hurt but the dope felt so good…I calmed down and was so…relaxed all the time. I was high in class constantly. Before school, at lunch…I’d seek him out and get my fix. Everything was okay for those moments. I forgot everything.”

For a split second, Naruto’s gaze was far away. He looked down at the page before him. “On the same day I was expelled from my middle school for drug use—I don’t know why they didn’t press charges—I went back to the group home and was told about Couple Eleven. We went through the process.” Naruto’s face turned color. “My dad, my real dad, the one who adopted me, had studied Japanese in college and lived in Japan for a year. My bio-dad was Japanese. It…fit. My adoptive father knew the language, customs, culture…he’s Buddhist…he helped me connect. My adoptive mom knew some Japanese. She and I studied together. We’re all fluent now, and can read and write Kanji. There’s no English in our house.” He grinned. His grin faded as he looked down again. “I pass for white until I say my name. That’s its own set of issues. I kind of look like them. It turned out okay.”

He sighed heavily. “All my parents have done from day one is love me, and I put them through hell.” He reached for a tissue as the two addicts flanking him rubbed his back, concerned. The room was dead quiet as they murmured to him that it was okay to cry. “Three months into getting a whole new, permanent, good life, I take up heroin again ’cause I’m an asshole. A lonely one. My parents were awesome, but I still didn’t have any friends, just dealers. I didn’t know how to be a friend, really. I’d pretend, so I could figure out how to steal something from you. I lied, cheated, stole, smiled sweetly at the cops and was never charged…six years of that shit, on and off. Off because…I’d stop of my own will six months at a time because—I just—I hated seeing my parents cry.”

Sniffles, hiccupping, crying, tissues and then a shaky breath. “I was in the hospital because I had overdosed…and survived…I had been showing signs of cardiac…not arrest, but…something…my druggie friends had called an ambulance because I passed out after grabbing my chest. It was supposed to be pure, but…My parents—” His voice cracked. “They were right there when I woke up in the hospital. They were so scared. I was okay. Brain damage, gonna have heart problems if I don’t already, scarred veins, my kidneys aren’t great, but I’m alive and coherent. I was eighteen. I still think they paid someone off so there’d be no legal consequences. We never talked about it. Not long after I was released from the hospital, my parents insisted I come to N.A., and they started Nar-Anon. I was so pissed off that I went and did heroin after my first meeting.”

Several old-timers, people who have been coming to N.A. for years, burst out laughing. “I hated you all!” Naruto whined. “And then my parents made me move into clean and sober housing!” he wailed jokingly, an offended toddler. His roommates roared with laughter. Naruto says his roommates are like brothers, when he’s trying to encourage people to move into sober living facilities.  
“I had real friends…brothers…and a ton of energy. My parents were thrilled up until I started practicing fake karate-do moves on the walls…then my roommates…I had to sign a behavioral contract saying I would no longer practice fake karate-do moves on the walls or my roommates. I was young and immature. Still am! No more fake karate moves, though. So…I have one year clean and an amazing sponsor. Hi, Sakura. And my grand-sponsor, who is sponsoring Sakura, is Tsunade, and you’re awesome. So is support system. You guys rock. Thank you for letting me share tonight and I pass.”  
“Thanks, Naruto!” the room hollered.

\---  
It had been a good meeting.


	6. Chapter 6

-Naruto-  
I did my first speaker meeting tonight! I’ve done first-step shares and chaired a lot, but never this! I held the floor for an hour and a half! Sharing, getting personal…crying, getting really personal…it was good for me, and a big step. “Circle up, we don’t do lines anymore!” Stacy hollers. “Hardy-har-har,” several people, including Sasuke nearby, shout sarcastically. It is an old, stale joke. People are shuffled. Sasuke and I are close to one another and make eye contact, then—  
“Stretch!” shouts Holly. She calls me often. I like her. She reaches for Sasuke. “We can hold hands! In AA we held hands,” he explains. “Sacrilege!” she shouts. They both crack up laughing. We’re N.A. purists here. Standoffs between N.A. members and A.A. members in the parking lot are common. Some newcomers look around nervously. “In N.A., we put our arms around each other,” I remind them gently. They do so. Nahum shuffles over to remind me that the house meeting in two days will include roommate interviews, new guys, since one of the guys recently moved out. I make a face and Sakura, my sponsor, notices and laughs. “Put it on your fourth step.” I sigh. “Will someone read ‘Just for Today.’”  
“Just for today…”

Interviews are annoying, but new guys tend to be cool. I always like seeing the expressions on their faces when it’s their first UA. I was mortified at the thought of pissing into a small container to prove I wasn’t doing drugs. I’ve since gotten used to it, since it helps me stay in Oxford. This is probably future-tripping, but I wonder who the new one will be. “So long as I follow that way, I have nothing to fear,” the room rumbles, and I start paying attention again for half a second. “Many of us have said—” The roommate thing doesn’t need to go on my resentment list. I’m fine. Sakura and I are going to go over my third step soon. The circle breaks as the meeting ends and people mingle. Someone smells like bubble gum. It’s annoying. “Hey, Naruto, um…” Sasuke isn’t the one who does. He doesn’t smell like anything, after the bubble gum. He can’t looks away from me, then looks me right in the eye. He fidgets. Why is he nervous? “I really…appreciated—” he straightens suddenly and looks me right in the eye, speaking firmly. “I really appreciated how honest you were in your share.” I was? “I wouldn’t have spoken about most of that at all, and would have glossed over important details. You didn’t. That takes courage.” This is the most I’ve ever heard him say.  
“I needed that,” he continues. “I needed someone to be that honest. And you’re cool.” He deflates. “You’re gonna hear that from me a lot, and roll your eyes every time you see me and think, ‘Oh, there he comes again, boring, telling me I’m cool.”

“No,” I said, laughing. “No…I wasn’t really a cool kid until I came into this program. Say it again and again.” A smile momentarily flashes across the face that looks like it would crack if he really grinned. I wonder what his story is. “Anyway, um, yeah.” He retreats into his ever-present black hoodie. “See you soon, I guess, or something.” Color stains his face. Blushing is…weird. “Yeah!” Several people turn. Shit. I hadn’t meant to shout. I was trying to relax him a little. He nods and scurries off.

This is so weird. Before I got clean…suddenly I am so tired. The adrenaline’s leaving, I guess. Erik invites me for coffee as fellowship. Do I want to? No. I’m so tired. Sakura warned me this would happen at my first speaker meeting—strangers would introduce themselves (Erik) and try to get me to go for fellowship, and I didn’t have to go if I didn’t want to. I don’t. I want to go back to the house and sleep. Fuck, it’s not even ten at night. What day is today? Friday? Do I have rehearsal tomorrow? No…good…sleep...I just want to fall over. “C’mon, you,” Kiba drapes an arm around me, holding me up. “He’s dead on his feet. Let’s get him into the car.” I groan, not moving very quickly. Akamaru nudges me. “Fine,” I mutter. Staci “with an ‘I’ not a ‘y,’ I’m not the treasurer –or- an addict!” zips by as we all shuffle out. She’s going to wind up on my resentment list soon. –She’s- not an addict, but she comes here anyway. –She- doesn’t have to deal with the shit we do. –She- is only here because she wants a better way of life. 

It says in the literature you can come to N.A. if you desire a better way of life. That’s why she’s here. I don’t know any more than that. I’ve never talked to her. She’s cheerful, blonde and annoying when she does talk, so according to others, we could have things in common. Maybe a women’s group would help her even more. When I complained to Sakura about her the first time, we had a conversation about how I was apparently trying to limit the membership of N.A.

“She’s not a drug addict. The only requirement to join N.A. is a desire to stop using drugs,” I argued.  
“She wants a better way of life.”  
“Why does she hang out with drug addicts?!”  
“Recovering drug addicts.”  
“She needs to leave us alone! Her being there violates the privacy of every person in there. Staci—”  
“Staci’s parents are drug addicts.”  
“Then get her into Nar-Anon,” I groan.  
“It doesn’t work for everyone. N.A. works for her,” Sakura points out.  
I sigh, out of arguments. “Her perfume smells bad and her voice hurts my teeth,” is not a reason to kick someone out of a meeting even if it’s true.  
My bed is welcoming.

My roommates’ weekend-job alarms at five o’clock Sunday morning are not. And ugh, tomorrow we’re doing new roommate interviews…and SHIT today Sakura and I are doing my third step and I forgot. Okay, not a crisis. Oh, I didn’t do my gratitude list last night. I grab my notebook and jot down ten things I’m grateful for.  
I wish I could sleep in. I can’t. I have to meet Sakura in an hour. I make frustrated noises at myself and mess up my hair as I plan my day in my head, or try. “It’s good for you, Naruto,” Sakura sometimes teases me. “Getting up with your roommates at the ass-crack of dawn on Sundays fosters a sense of community and empathy.” Sakura works so much, and does a lot of stuff outside of work, that Sundays are pretty much her only free day. Six AM is when she gets off of work now, so she’s awake then. I’m not. Sakura lives alone in an apartment and can do what she wants. I live with five other guys and the battle for resources is vicious. Hot shower water is a precious thing. The guys and I had a polite, but loud, conversation when they realized what it meant to have a musical theater actor in the house: pounds of face and body paint and makeup that needed to be washed off every night. We negotiated and used “I” statements. Nobody swore! There were a few remarks about “This is the last time we let an actor in the house,” “That’s job discrimination!” “Have you SEEN the water bill?!” but we worked through it. The makeup doesn’t happen till halfway through the rehearsal process or later, anyway. But today is Sunday, so no rehearsal, so no showering.

“And tomorr—fuck, I’ll be getting home right as we start preparing for the interviews. I’m just gonna sit there in my bright sparkly makeup and fucking sparkle at the newcomers, and my sparkly nail polish, hands and feet,” I fume. Sakura can’t stop laughing. “Laugh! Laugh, paramedic lady, laugh! Happy six o’clock in the morning! Makeup! On my face! For so many hours!”

“Flames, flames! On the side of my face!” Sakura teases, giggling. I ignore her even though it’s a line from one of my favorite movies. “It’s greasy! The powder kind is even worse! It itches after awhile! And none of my roommates will blow on my face.” I cross my arms. “Breathe. I don’t know CPR. I knew it twelve years ago.” Sakura collects herself. “And the makeup makes me break out if I leave it on too long!” I wave my arms in frustration, then sigh.  
“Naruto, remind me again what blowing on your face is.”  
“We can’t touch our faces because the makeup will smear, so when our faces itch, we politely whisper to other cast members to blow on the spot that itches.”  
“Okay.”

We reach for our coffees. I bring my coffee tumbler over. One less dish for Sakura to wash. She always insists that she doesn’t mind. “So, step three.” Sakura flips through the step working guide. Sometimes I hate step work. It’s me reading out loud answers I wrote to very detailed questions, when I meet with Sakura anyway. I wish I could just hand the old, worn spiral-bound notebook to her so she could read and grade my answers, like a teacher or something. I remember my frustration when I first tried to do that five years ago and was met with, “No. Read them out loud to me.”

“Hey Naruto, it’s your favorite section: self-will.” We laugh a little. It breaks up the monotony of read-and-respond. Sakura looks down at the book as she reads the questions out loud. I shift in my seat and look at the notebook. “When I make up my mind that I do or don’t want to do something, there are times where I’ll barrel ahead and do it. I ignore other people’s (wiser) opinions on it and I get really wrapped up in my own feelings. I ignore people who have been through whatever I’m doing. I don’t listen to my Higher Power in those times, either.” Sakura nods. “Sounds about right. How has that worked out for you?” Sometimes she asks very casual versions of the questions. “It’s made me more controlling—everything has to go my way. I don’t listen to others and I wind up missing out on a lot of opportunities.” Also known as, I was wrong. It is said that addicts have a need to always be right.

“I don’t like being told what to do,” I continue. Sakura is trying not to laugh. “I still think I know better than anyone, and none of you are actors, so of course I do.” She starts laughing, both because this is true and she can relate. “I listen to directors and stage managers!” I protest. “And ASMs!”  
“Yeah, well, I listen to my supervisors too. You know this question means more than that.”  
“I’m sticking by my answer.”  
“Okay. Let’s keep going.”


	7. Chapter 7

(Trigger warning for domestic violence.)

-Sasuke-  
“Hi, my name is Sasuke Uchiha. I saw on the Oxford website that you have a vacancy—”  
“Hi, Sasuke! Yeah, our house meeting is tomorrow night. You can come in for an interview. How much clean time do you have? What programs are you in?”  
“Uh…” The person on the other line is cheery, and I am caught off-guard. I don’t know why. “Narcotics Anonymous…I have eight days clean…” my voice trails off. Don’t ask about my work history. It will turn into a first-step share. Keep asking the questions you are now.  
“Okay, great! See you tomorrow.”  
“Thank you.” I’ve been warned that they ask about work history and clean time.

Two weeks ago, Shikamaru came over to go over my step work. He said nothing about the neighborhood. I warned him about the attempted break-in and told him to only get scared if I got scared. He said okay. None of the people I’ve had over have ever said anything about the apartment complex’s overflowing garbage cans or the fact that graffiti is just everywhere. I think they are being polite. Two hours into the step work, Shikamaru asked most most-hated question in the step working guide. I had written out an answer, but I flipped him off anyway after reading it. He shrugged. He knows I hate the question. Six days after that, I called him at three o’clock in the morning. “I relapsed,” I explained tearfully.  
“I would have appreciated a phone call,” he sighed. “What happened?”  
“My dad.”  
“Is everyone okay?”  
“I guess.” No one needed stitches.

Everyone in my family is scared of my dad. This time was worse than usual. My mom flung herself between my dad and I to protect me from him. She uses herself as a human shield sometimes and I feel so guilty. I should be able to fight him off. Itachi always manages to disappear. No one has ever needed stitches. We’ve learned to deal with it. As soon as the bruises fade, we pretend it never happened. My mom explained tearfully to Itachi and I why she was probably not going to leave my dad: she was homeless and starving when he rescued her over twenty-five years ago. Her words, not mine. She told us that when he threatened to kill me, and told me I was moving out the next day for my safety. That’s how I wound up thirty miles away. For over a year, I got to pretend my dad didn’t exist. I survived on my own, using emergency savings.  
They ran out.

When I told people I trusted what happened, I received a lot of very offensive and unsolicited advice. Those people got upset when I stopped calling and couldn’t understand why I didn’t do A, B, or C, or worse, why my mom didn’t. People told me to forgive my dad to avoid any resentments. I smiled as I imagined their deaths. I learned how to say, “I will only listen to my sponsor about this,” and then I learned to stop talking about my family at all. When people asked about my family, I recited the, “Well, an addict said something before you even got here and ruined it for everybody, so don’t take it personally” monologue. There are a lot of assholes in this program, but there are good people too.  
Shikamaru is a good person, and a really good sponsor. He talks me through everything and doesn’t judge, but he does call me on my shit. Right now, he listens. I call him and tell him I got an Oxford interview tomorrow night. He says okay and asks how I am. I write down a gratitude list and head to a meeting.

I plan to go to a meeting I don’t usually go to anymore, just because I have enough time to. My cell phone rings as I pack food in a tote bag. “Hey, what’s up?”  
“You wanna go to Pink Slips?” asks the familiar voice, the one that sounds like it could never be sad.  
“Uh, yeah. You gonna pick me up?”  
“In your parking lot, dude.”  
“What’s got you here?” I hurriedly lock my door.  
“I wanted to try a new meeting.”  
“Yeah?”  
“It sucked. Pink Slips shouldn’t.”

Booker’s car is easy to spot thanks to his bumper stickers. We’re in for a long drive—this meeting is two hours away and in the evening. One and a half hours away, really, with Booker’s driving. I live on the highway. He’s doing eighty in a sixty mile an hour zone, so he drives like a local. He slows down when the signs tell him to. I snap at him when he tries to answer his phone. I’m not going to die tonight. “So hey—ooh, we’re on Sixth Avenue already! Hey, how late’s Dairy Queen open? I got the munchies. We have awhile. You wanna go, my treat? There’s one nearby.”  
“Pothead,” I joke as we walk in. A little kid stares at me. “Ice cream in wintertime,” I muse as Booker and I decide. Booker has replaced pot with sports in his life. He eats a ton, but for good reason.

We sit down at a small, clean table in the center. I am glad I left my tote bag of food at the apartment—I’d forgotten how much food DQ can offer in a meal. Booker practically inhales his dinner. I can’t stop eating, either. “Brain freeze,” I grumble a few minutes later, glaring at the culprit. “You ordered a smoothie and ice cream,” Booker points out.  
“Yeah, well, I’m not one for soda. And it’s a mocha smoothie. It might keep me awake. And you ordered a soda!”  
“Sweet tooth. Pot history,” he points out.  
“Okay, yeah.” We walk around the small town’s shopping district for a little while. There isn’t much to do besides that while waiting for the meeting. We finish our ice cream and drive to the church.

I recognize a few people. The meeting is still a big meeting. Caprice is secretary now, I think. Conisha and Booker sit on either side of her. Booker has been treasurer since the meeting began a few years ago. I sit with Anton. We catch up in the thirty second before Caprice speaks over the loud chatter of forty people talking. She keeps getting interrupted. “Hi, my name is—shut the fuck up, please.”  
“Hi, shut the fuck up please,” most of us respond, laughing. Caprice leans back and raises and eyebrow as a few guys come in late. “Hey, handsome,” their friends tease. “Hey, cutie,” and they make room for each other. “Hey sweetie.” As the room quiets, Caprice looks at the three boxes of Kleenex on the table briefly.  
“This meeting is an hour and a half long with a ten minute fellowship break halfway through. To ensure everyone has a chance to share, please limit your share to five minutes. I have asked Conisha tonight to share her experience, strength and hope.”

Conisha talks about the second step and opens it up. We are allowed to get current too, and tomorrow night weighs heavy on my mind, so—“Hi, I’m Sasuke. I’m an addict.”  
“Hi, Sasuke.” Everyone is quiet, waiting. It is a nice change from last time here—I was interrupted five times by six different people in thirty seconds. They were having loud conversations with each other without a care. It was a catalyst to my leaving. I look at the wall across the room. This is a room with a view of old trees outside that cast creepy shadows when the sun sets. “I have an interview to get into Oxford tomorrow night. I’m—nervous. And it’s so stupid—stupid to hope. I can’t pay rent. I go to the food bank where I live, and this Oxford house is in a swanky neighborhood thirty miles from me. What do I do when I explain my unemployment? My last job? How do I live with people? I just—you guys.” I shake my head, annoyed for even saying anything. “Thanks and I pass.”  
“Thanks, Sasuke.”

And the sharing is like a slingshot. People grin and reassure me I’ll get in and how great it is, and how I’m expected to stay a year, and they are all just so happy. In seven months, I committed only one crime to get drugs. Usually it’s multiple crimes, highly dangerous and I never get caught. For seven months, I held a job in a hospital as an intake receptionist. I liked that job! I gave doctors forms saying which patients needed what done and put them in a computerized waiting list. My first week, I flirted with an ER doctor. I quickly figured out where the drugs were and ignored him in favor of heavy-duty painkillers. I was caught seven months later and told “You can go to N.A., and resign immediately from your job, or we can fire you on the spot.” I picked option one. They didn’t know I was already in N.A. I don’t know why charges weren’t filed.  
There is only one vacancy at this Oxford house.

It is a fucking manor. Nahum looks over at me as I gasp and he parks the car. I had called and in a hushed, embarrassed tone, admitted to being lost, despite knowing I was nearby. “It’s wintertime,” the cheerful voice remarked. “I’ll come pick you up.” So now we are here. The wide, sweeping porch looks freshly painted. The house is white with black trim and a black shingle roof that is not very steep. The windows are huge and I find out they’re triple-paned. Heavy, black velvet curtains hang by their sides. Nahum punches a security code on the keypad. It beeps and a small light glows green. He leans on the door and ushers me past the stately, mahogany door with an elegant, long handle and a clear window patterned after stained glass set in it.

I remove my shoes and shuffle across the short black carpet, staring around. It is so warm in here—what a welcome change. My apartment has been so cold—my neighbors on either side moved out. The ceilings in this house are smooth and high. The walls and ceiling are clean and white. There are no walls to separate the kitchen from the living room or dining room. The only indication one room might be different is the furniture. There is an island kitchen, all with black granite surfaces and dark wooden cabinets whose metal handles gleam. I am offered a glass of water. The water issues from a click-faucet on the fridge. The fridge is also an ice-maker. I drink, and, not knowing where else to set the glass, put it on the counter next to the sparkling sink.

I sit in the dining room, at the teak table with its eight chairs. Six other guys are sprawled across furniture—a couch they sink into and plush, large armchairs in the living room. That furniture is not black, as I first thought, but charcoal. Am I competing against all these strange guys? Footsteps sound on all staircases, one that leads into the basement (or maybe just a lower floor) and another that leads upstairs, and the one across from it. There is flooring that connects the two like a balcony or a jutting extra floor. Seven men arrange, and the six sprawled guys and I spring over, unsure of ourselves. “My team sucks,” one of the seven men whines. They are discussing hockey. “They are horrible.”  
“It’s your own damn fault for picking a sucky team,” Naruto points out. Nahum stands near him. My pulse is quick. Booker grins at me. Kiba restrains Akamaru. I wave at the dog and calm down a little.

There are fourteen of us, and we all wind up sitting on the floor in a circle. “Whoever wins duck-duck-goose is the new roommate,” one of the Oxford men jokes. After the chuckles subside, another guy pulls out a clipboard. He verifies our names, fellowships, clean dates and who is in rehab. Arthur’s at December Bennett, and has twenty-eight days. I want to kill him. I need this more than he does. “Okay, now that’s settled. Get comfortable.” We pretend to. The Oxford guys take notes on us, on filler paper for the next two hours as we answer questions about personality, sleep habits, proof of cleanliness (“What disease am I most likely to catch if I eat your food, walk on your floor and use your bathroom?”), conflict resolution and dietary restrictions. “If you are a freegan, go root through someone else’s garbage. If you get pissy that we don’t buy organic food, it’s expensive shit for eight people. If you keep kosher or halal, we are trying to, too. It’s healthy. Talk to us.”  
Experiences with roommates, past experiences in Oxford or other clean and sober housing…homegroups and meeting attendance, job history, who has pets (nobody).  
“Too bad, the last guy had the cutest little Pekingese and he was the house dog.”  
“Ugh, the fur!” somebody remembers.  
“Ugh, the attitude!” somebody else exclaims. The laughter echoes and eases the pressure in my chest.

I am honest even though I want to fake it. I’m serious, sarcastic, smart and a night owl. I have insomnia. They are most likely to get damp feet if they walk on the weekly-cleaned floor, bloated from all the fucking food bank macaroni, and nothing I can think of in the bathroom will make them sick. It’s clean too. I look away as I slip up and mention the food bank. I do not want to see the shock, discomfort, nor pity. The clipboard-holder outlines the rules: no kids, overnight guests are okay as long as your orgasms do not interrupt the entire household, the guests have to leave at sunrise, a different person cooks dinner every night but we have leftovers night too, we sign up for time slots when doing laundry. Those are only some of the rules. Whoever makes it in, gets to know them all. If you’re unemployed, start looking right away for a job and go to lots of meetings. You are expected to cook and clean more than others until you are employed. You are on blackout for the first month—you have a nine PM curfew unless you have a night job, you have to go to a meeting every day and hand over your slip, remember to log out, and you’re kind of on house arrest except for your job and meetings.

We are given a relatively brief tour of the house. There are eight bedrooms. Whoever moves in has a roommate for the first three months. There are two twin beds on either side of the room, in that room. We are not allowed to see the others. There are six bathrooms. We get to see one. The house has three floors. The laundry room, pantry, rec room and garage are downstairs. To preserve electricity, we use candles everywhere at night except in the kitchen and bathroom. The lights are not turned on during the day. Try not to use too much power. Warm water for showering or cooking or whatever is fine. “Um, I think that’s it. Any questions?” We shake our heads.

Rides home are arranged. I am stared at when I say where I live. “Sasuke—Sasuke, right? It’s—it’s snowing.” He points. We look. “This is really unusual, and we only do it in inclement weather—stay the night.” My jaw drops and my eyes widen. “Dude, you live thirty miles away in the ghetto. It would take hours for you to be driven home—the snow is four inches, sticking and still coming down,” Kiba points out. “They all live much closer than you do. They’re fine. You won’t be.” Well, shit. “Okay,” I croak. Smiles all around—even the guys I am competing with are relieved. I hate having to get rides from people. I got here just fine! I hate snow.

“We are going to disappear for fifteen minutes. Amuse yourselves. No eavesdropping.” The Oxford guys go upstairs into one of the bedrooms. The others and I migrate downstairs. “Did anyone bring their step work?” We laugh. “Quick, someone do a first step share in ten minutes! Go!” We joke some more, but silence settles. All too soon, there is a knock at the door. We bolt upstairs, nearly knocking Nahum over. “We made our decision. You’ll be informed in a phone call in fifteen minutes. Drive safe.”  
I am left with kind strangers who offer me food and lavish bedding. Dessert, if I want it. And a shower. And will I please stay for breakfast? The phone calls begin. All I hear are muffled, low tones. Nahum is beside me as I shamelessly raid the fridge. Non-labeled leftovers are community property. It is nearly nine at night. I am stuffing my face with cheesecake when Nahum speaks. “Hey Sasuke.” I turn, fork held perilously in my mouth.

“Congratulations, you made it!” the guys holler. I fumble to catch the fork.  
“Welcome home!”


	8. Chapter 8

-Naruto-  
Thankfully I didn’t oversleep today. I shuffle into the kitchen, silently cursing my fate. Not oversleeping was good. Having a sore throat is bad. Talking is how I make my living. I’m not going to call in sick. As I open the fridge, I quietly test my voice. I think I will be okay. There was a meeting I went to for awhile. Once, I accidentally admitted to being an actor. Every person in there had a very unsolicited opinion they wanted to share with me. The unsolicited sharing of opinions on my career choice for so long was part of why I left that meeting. It was really just a lot of people talking at me, after the first meeting I admitted it at. There was, however, this one asshole who kept it up. He even followed me and shouted sometimes. It’s twelve-step. Crazy assholes who hate actors are everywhere. It was a really weird meeting, but fortunately not too big. Still, ten people holding the floor on something I didn’t invite them to, all at once, is a lot. I consider getting a day job sometimes, just to shut them up. I could lie, but lying in recovery makes the process pointless. Twelve-step meetings are the place to we finally stop lying. I clear my throat and sniffle. Oh no. Is it a cold or just some weird…morning sniffles?  
If I had a day job, I wouldn’t have to fucking worry about colds or morning sniffles.

“Good morning!”  
“Fuck you.”  
“Hey, shut up. I got you home last night so you could shower and get all your makeup off.”  
“Sorry.” I pop some leftovers in the microwave as Jeremy raises an eyebrow.  
“Is it Hell Week?”  
“No,” I sigh. “We’re a month away.”  
“Well shit, and you’re acting like this already.”  
“Rough night,” I explain.  
“And here I thought you were still pissy about the roommate thing. He’s quiet at night, not like the last one.”

I roll my eyes at the memory. The last guy blared his stereo most nights. He didn’t like anyone telling him what to do, so his own roommates telling him to keep it down wasn’t well received. Even his Pekingese thought the music was loud! He hid under people’s beds and would only sleep in his person’s bed when the music was off. The microwave goes off. I pull the plate our and sit down to eat.  
“Akamaru! When did you get out here? No beg!”  
If I do have a sore throat, I will speak as little as possible. Shouldn’t be too hard. I woke up pissed off.  
The others amble in. Booker and Kiba are swearing at each other and themselves. Akamaru looks back and forth between them and me a few times. He wants food. He wants his person. He is not getting any food. Kiba calls him over. Nate doesn’t even pause to say anything, he just thuds downstairs and clumps back upstairs to remind us to do our laundry.

“Who’s next?” sighs Jeremy.  
“Nahum, do your laundry!”  
“Good morning to you too, Boss of the House.” Nahum takes his time getting a glass of water. Before Nate can explode, Mitch announces himself by screaming at us that we were all too loud last night. “Drug dreams!” we yell in response. Everyone in the house is clean and sober, but we still dream of using. Mitch goes quiet and looks ready to cry.  
“I seem to be interrupting a chipper morning.” Sasuke looks pissed off like the rest of, but he always looks pissed off. He probably feels just fine. Fucker. “Six inches of the snow stuck,” Booker informs us. I close my eyes and put my head in my hands. My throat isn’t sore. It was just a weird thing. I get it sometimes and it always freaks me out. Fast way to derail my career.  
“They pave the roads yet?”  
“No.”  
I look up at that.

“We’re snowed in. Too bad this is a sober living house,” Kiba trots out his old joke. We groan. Nate digs out the clipboard from his bedroom and puts it on the table. He clutches a pen in his hand as we talk about the possibility of carpooling to work, does anybody have errands, do we have enough food, when is the snow going to melt.  
“Never,” Sasuke pipes up. He glowers at the wall, then at us. “I hate snow.”  
“Frost and ice, too?” Andy asks. Sasuke slouches. “If any of you do anything to me involving these as a prank, screw you. I have nowhere to be, so I will be here.”  
“Thank you for your feedback. Brood somewhere else.”  
“Nate! Sasuke, don’t listen to him. We collectively hate snow too.” Andy is trying to smooth things over. Sasuke stalks out.

“I have rehearsal tonight on the schedule, but—” I look out the window. “Plan for it to be canceled. They’ll call to let me know. No errands.” Nate nods, not looking up from his paper. I stuff the rest of my breakfast in my mouth and put the plate loudly into the sink. Nate is very organized and has everything together. He’s also very tightly wound. He says he’s proud of it—two years ago, he was tightly and that’s the only thing that stayed the same. We mess with him, me more than the others. Okay, mostly just me. The little things still get to him. I walk out to find Sasuke. Usually everybody just shouts for each other. Usually everyone’s a lot calmer. I absentmindedly shut a door, then jump as a loud bang comes from behind it. The door is yanked open again. Oops. Found him.

“Did you throw a shoe at the door?”  
“Yeah. Don’t close it.”  
I nod and stride into the room. Some would say I barged in. These are also the people who say I’m loud and obnoxious. “Nate’s wound too tight.” I sit on the bed. Sasuke glares, looks around and sits next to me. He tries to sit as far away as possible, but it’s a twin bed. Far is not too far. “I was really pissed off when I came into sober living, too.” Silence. “It took a week for me to get used to it.” Silence. He rests his chin in his hand. The glare has shifted to annoyed boredom. “Nate thinks he’s hot shit since he’s been here so long. He’s trying to be all powerful and create a hierarchy. Pride and ego. I wonder how hard he works his sixth step.”  
Sasuke smiles a little at that.

“Everybody’s pretty much equal in the house. The power thing is bullshit. The rules are different for newcomers but only for awhile.”  
“I know. I actually listened the first night.” Sasuke has shifted back to annoyed boredom. How the hell can I get through to this guy? Was I like that at first? If I was, I must’ve gotten over it and started pulling pranks within the week. The black-haired man so many people think is still a moody teenager looks over at the wall. I wish he’d look at me, now. Since when? Well, he’s…very attractive. I’ve stopped talking. I move closer as he leans back. It’s his room. He doesn’t have a roommate yet. He can relax. I want to be close to him. We’re not really paying attention to the space between us for different reasons. His head brushes my chest.  
Someone bangs the door open. We jump. “Jeez, did I interrupt a blowjob?”  
“Get out, Jeremy!” Sasuke and I both shriek.  
“Oh ho.”  
“Fucker!” we yowl.  
“Chill, princesses. I formally invite you to a homemade pancake breakfast in honor of the power not going out. Three different kinds of syrup, bananas and berries for garnish, whipped cream—”

My stomach growls. It’s a bottomless pit. Jeremy grins. “Shall I describe the choice of sides with breakfast?”  
“I’m going!” I zoom out to the food. Sasuke and Jeremy follow. “No handjobs at the table,” Jeremy teases. Sasuke looks ready to kill him.  
I step on Leo’s shoelace. Cheap trick. Hm. Water! No, the water prank is mean. When he leans down to tie his shoe, I’ll nudge him face-first into the cupboard or something. Still too mean. I know one! I drink icewater from a glass and watch out of the corner of my eye as Jeremy crouches to tie his shoe. I move delicately and tilt the glass to drink faster and—“Aah! Damn it!”

I smile into the water glass and gulp the crushed ice quickly. Water spills on me when I drink fast, and if my Higher Power decides it’s okay, onto others. Down the back of their saggy jeans when they think they’re funny but they’re not. Naruto—1, Jeremy—0.  
“Crushed ice! It went down my pants!” He hops, annoyed. A visible water stain is on the butt of his jeans and the thighs too. “I got wet too,” I indicate my t-shirt. Sasuke fails to muffle his laughter, especially at my widened, innocent eyes. “Huh. He laughs,” someone observes. Jeremy loudly suggests we sit down to eat. We do. Jeremy whines about wanting a cushion to sit on, and, "I am underappreciated! This is the last time I do anything like this! I have to serve you guys, and ice is dripping down my legs!" “Get over it,” Sasuke grumbles as Jeremy heaps his plate for him. He grabs two of the syrups, drowns half his pancakes and starts shoveling. “Thanks for breakfast,” he says around a mouthful. The rest of us remember our manners and echo our thanks.  
“Sure.”

I demolish my own and look up when I’m done, at Jeremy’s retreating back. He’s whipping up more of everything. I intentionally never pay attention to the idea of how expensive having eight people in a house might be. But eight people…splitting the cost, it might not be too bad. When I move out of here though, it’ll be into a studio apartment. Small. Me only. Having eight people, even in this house, is a lot sometimes. I go for long walks to be alone since it’s rare I have the house to myself. I used to be really lonely, and alone a lot. I hated it. Now, I want to be alone sometimes, and not for long. Just to breathe.

Sasuke and I clear our dishes. I accompany, not follow because I’m not weird, him into his room. We sit on the bed facing each other, knees touching. He stares determinedly at me, trying to prove something. Newcomers are always weird. “In conclusion, Nate is wound too tight and Jeremy thinks his gay jokes are funny, even more when directed at me.”  
“And me,” Sasuke points out like it’s obvious. Wait—well, that could mean different—he looks away briefly. Oh.  
Knocking. “Yeah,” Sasuke calls. Nahum shuffles in. “You want to be all hardcore about recovery and walk in two feet of snow to the meeting a mile away? It needs support.”  
“Yeah!” I shout. “Sasuke, you can borrow—”  
“I have hiking boots. I wear them everywhere when it’s cold.” He points to them.  
“—one of my jackets. I have tons.”  
“Oh. Thanks.”  
Ten minutes later, the household heads out.

Sasuke barely acknowledges me during the snow walk. Maybe it’s because he hates snow. He walks confidently in it, even when he sinks knee-deep. Everyone is in jeans and t-shirts underneath their winter layers. Jeremy whines for fifteen minutes and screams when Sasuke tells him to shut up and that his ass will eventually melt. The icewater on his jeans is barely visible. I laugh. Proud moment. Crunch, crunch. As we stomp along, I think if Sasuke stumbled, I could catch him. Cliché. The one gay guy having a crush on the other. Cliché. Mutual? A drippy romance novel! This guy has a little over a week clean. The literature, the people who work hard programs and common sense warn against two addicts with varying length of clean time getting involved. We’re really different right now. We’re different anyway.  
“Welcome! We’re really glad you’re here!” The greeter looks psyched.  
“Yeah, the entire household.”  
“Well, come on in!”

I cough as my cell phone rings. “Hello?”  
No rehearsal tonight. The snow will be half-melted tomorrow. The roads will be risky for awhile with the possibility of ice. Weekend rehearsals till next month to make up for the weather. “Thanks.” I close my eyes. Rehearsing seven days a week for three weeks…I can feel the exhaustion already, and plan my preemptive apology to my roommates.


	9. Chapter 9

-Sasuke-  
During winter, some violinists insist, performance improvement is common. During winter, violins are pretty fragile and if anyone offers to carry mine, even Itachi, I will bite their hand. My arms are too full of boxes for me to do much else. The men I will be living with for who knows how long stare at the two people who made me, and the one I rarely see, the brother who helped shape me. We set boxes down along the walls in my room. As we walk towards the front door again, my roommates spring to help. My brother and I jump in surprise. “Oh, it’s okay. His entire life fits into a Prius,” my mom cheerfully explains. “Except the furniture,” my roommates point out before I can.

My dad directs them to move the skeleton of my dresser and the detached drawers. The dresser is forty years old and quite sturdy. One of the drawers sticks, though. It’s odd to think it’s an antique. None of the clothes in the drawers spill out. Itachi and I share a look. He shields me from view as I grab my most important possession, and he, the second-most. The furniture and things that will go into storage are in the moving truck. That is almost all my stuff. The things in the Prius are for here. And yeah, it is all my life. Itachi and I set my two treasures down in the back of the bedroom closet. I will be sad if the stand is stolen, and out of my mind if the Stradivarius is. It’s a knock-off. They stopped making them in the 1700s. This one was made in the 1930s. Or its bow, or rosin, or cleaning cloth. Oh, what the black plastic case with metal clasps hides…the case and its contents are insured. My teacher explained it all when he gave it to me.  
I signed a ton of paperwork five years ago. Lots of phone calls, lots of people. Oren, the man who taught me for nine years, retired due to his hands shaking so much that he could no longer safely hold a violin. When a violin drops on a performance hall floor, the sound is like a grenade and the exploding pieces—metal and wood—threaten injury. Oren was not going to have any exploding violins.

I got his third-best one and a letter explaining why. I saved and framed it. Talented. Shows a lot of promise. Will go far. It wasn’t the first time I heard those things, but it was different coming from him. The others usually said those things and were disappointed when the drugs would take me over. Oren knew. He looked at me as having an illness caused by specific brain chemistry. I was convinced he was a mind reader with very progressive ideas for his time. Later, I found out that he struggled with alcoholism and depression before managing to cobble what turned into a brilliant career. He will always be my idol.

Itachi and I shuffle out. “Is that it?” everyone is asking each other. My books have been carefully arranged into towering columns against the wall near my dresser. My parents carry in a plastic storage tub each. The tubs are giant and clear, with blue plastic lids. The contents are easily visible: concert clothes, concert cologne, sheet music, music books and stuff to hold my hair back during concerts. All my roommates probably see are clothes, thin books, papers and little boxes. I’m still nervous. I hate the questions, the expectations and the irritated entitlement disguised and directed outward as pity, at me. I scaled back my involvement after Oren left. I’m part of an informal string quintet now.

After everything is moved and organized, and Jeremy is feeding my family, I call Gloria. She, as always, will call Annika. Amarion, after Annika flirts with him, will call Yehuda. We rehearse, because it’s kind of rehearsing, at Gloria’s. Her dad is an engineer. Her mom works in finance helping nonprofits manage their money and get grants. Both incomes enable the family to live how they want. They’re well-to-do but kind and fairly modest. Raphael and Charity—I’ve known them for years and it’s still a little weird to think of them without the label “Gloria’s parents”—sit and watch us sometimes. They gloat to their friends. “We’re amateurs!” the quintet protests. “It’s a brush with greatness!” Raphael and Charity exclaim. When their friends watch, we treat it like a recital and try not to squirm. They’re just proud and impressed.

Yehuda drives at least one of us, sometimes all of us, to Gloria’s. He plays cello. It is not an instrument easily carried on the bus, and it’s safer in the car anyway. Amarion plays viola and he has enough background to play second violin if needed. He’s brilliant. Annika plays a fiddle but calls it second violin until the Celtic song sheet music comes out. And Gloria has been a harp player since she was eight. The harp is a huge, imposing instrument with a thick mahogany frame and a lot of strings. I never counted. Gloria and I arrange to practice separately from the group for a little while. The song I’m learning has a harp intro, and a few bars for harp only in the middle.

I stuff my phone in my pocket and go into the kitchen. I thank my family and promise to call. We hug. My family only hugs when they’re sad. I’m not sad. Why are they? I have food, a place to stay and I am going to be okay. The snow has even melted. It is warm again. The heat is still on, always on. At my old apartment I’d still be so cold and miserable.  
I draw up a meeting plan—before I do my first (attempted) ninety-ninety, I find meetings I can go to for every day of the week. If I like them, I’ll tell Shikamaru and try ninety meetings in ninety days. It’s common for newcomers. I am one, kind of. Over the next few days, I try to adjust and I realize I do not want to ever be in the situation I was, again. I talk about it in a few meetings. Over the next few weeks, I do adjust and come to terms with the fact that I’m starting over again. I practice with the quintet. I do the job search thing. It’s nice to be back in the world.

But I still remember this time last year—the misery during winter.


	10. Chapter 10

-Naruto-  
I am no stranger to loneliness. I’m not lonely now—all my roommates and people at the theater prevent that, and people I know in N.A.—but I was. The bullying started shortly after preschool and stopped when I graduated high school. With bullying comes rejection and loneliness. Nobody wants to talk to you if you’re the class freak. Other freaks were my friends, but they often switched schools because of how kids treated them. I had to stay whenever I had foster parents. I cut class and was a frequent guest in the principal’s office for defending myself against rich, white bullies from biological two-parent homes. This was in middle school. I was declared a truant at one middle school and ran away. I went to a different city and after a few months in the system, in a group home where I couldn’t trust anyone, I went to another family for a little while.

By then, there were enough gaps in my education and I hated school systems so much, that I just didn’t go. My parents were high-ranking Navy people who chose to try for a family and leave the military. I listened to them. They homeschooled me. In six months, my reading and math levels were okay. Science, too. And phys ed—I did military drills with them every morning for two hours. They helped me shape up mostly. I got into a fight with a neighbor and refused to be sorry. I ran away, and it was back to the group home, and more fights and bullying. By then, I had a criminal record and was very familiar with five hundred hour stints of community service. I don’t know why I never went to juvenile hall. Some kids screamed at me that it was affirmative action and used racial slurs. They were in and out of Echo Glen on various charges. Low-income white kids who hated Asians, especially half-white Asians like me.  
It’s stupid to trust other foster kids in group homes. I had no friends there either. Just my dealers in high school. My adoptive parents paid a lot of money when the drug charges started appearing on my rap sheet. I went to rehab a few times. I barely graduated high school. Do you notice I’m not mentioning any friends in here?

I had some friends in community college. They went to prison for drug use. I cried backstage during the second week performance of the play they were supposed to see me in. The realization that I would no longer have friends crushed me. I had one friend every year from age five to eighteen, and then I went to community college and had five at once. Now I would never see them again. I still haven’t. I would be all alone. And I was, outside of my drama classes and the theater. It eased—no, it disappeared--when I was accepted into the UW School of Drama. I was someone. I was accepted and even respected. I pulled pranks to try and get people to lighten up. It didn’t work. We were all serious actors. This was serious business—acting school. I remembered my loneliness though. I remember it every day and am grateful not to be lonely anymore. I used drugs to forget my loneliness—having no friends or fake friends.

My best friend for the past two years was someone I met while in acting school. He was dating a girl in my class. Stuart was a musician and had met Penelope when she was at Village Theater on—no, not Kid Stage. She’d been there—had they? I think they were friends—yeah. They were friends for five years before dating, He was in the music pit. She was onstage. Now, she was at college. We worked together a lot. We had good chemistry, our professors said.  
We kissed in a play. Stuart strode to me and puffed up. There was no real emotion in the kiss, his girlfriend and I explained. He drove both of us home. My house was further than hers. Stuart struck up a conversation and we became fast friends, best friends.

Six months ago, he turned into an arrogant braggart asshole. He said terrible things to me. I haven’t spoken to him since the phone call in which, out of nowhere, he laughed at me. I was a stupid homo loser, he said. He had just gotten a better theater job than I could ever dream of, he explained. With no theater experience, he had waltzed into a play Penelope had auditioned for and became stage manager. Penelope had asked the director because her boyfriend had been unemployed for years. The original stage manager had backed out, and Stuart was immediately available for minimum wage. “Banging Penelope has its benefits,” my best friend bragged.  
I have a good idea of how hard it is to be a stage manager. I don’t want to be one, so it is not a job I dream of. Stuart went on and on. “Oh, but you wouldn’t know about everything it takes to put together a play,” he smugly insisted. “You’re just an actor.”

“Actually, I know all about it,” I informed him icily. “I helped put together a play as my senior project in high school. I did the work of three people at once.” Stage manager, assistant director and props manager. Even for a small, not-professional play, it had been exhausting. I didn’t tell Stuart that.  
“Oh,” he grunted.  
“I know what it takes to be in professional theater,” I continued. “I graduated acting school and while I was there, had it rammed down my throat,” I reminded him frostily. It was the last thing I ever said to him. The last thing he said to me was that he’d forgotten I was in acting school. He laughed hysterically, and I ended the call. It was bullshit. He had been there for me through the ups and downs of acting school and some of my recovery. What the fuck was his problem? Directly after that, it was over between us.

This was a man who had celebrated with me when I got good grades and learned a lot. When I learned I was going to have a future in acting, he was happy. When I bawled about the workload in my second quarter and cracked under the stress a little more than halfway through, he was there for me. He consoled and encouraged me. When he started school again, I encouraged and helped him. When Penelope broke up with him for a month, I helped him pick up the pieces. I did not choose sides between them, but listened to them both. I helped him not feel ashamed for being on unemployment for the year that he was—it took two years before he finally went on what he considered welfare. Are unemployment checks welfare?

We called each other late at night and talked about stupid shit. He told me his dreams. We saw movies together and shared childhood memories. I never realized the mundane times were what I would look fondly back on. The big events, too, but the mundane stuff, the fact that we wanted to know the stupidly florid details of each others’ lives, was a huge part of our friendship. The man who listened as I—it would have been whining if I hadn’t been so tired that night. The sun took so long to set, I remember. I uttered, “This is so exhausting. I am so glad to be here, and it’s the opportunity of a lifetime, but it’s also the monotony of hell. The course load.” I was almost halfway through school. “The monotony of hell: I like that,” he mused. He told me to keep going. I did.

That was a long time ago. This is now. I still have not forgiven him for the phone call six months ago. He has not called me either. Penelope broke up with him for goof when I told her what happened. This was last week. She was wondering why he and I hadn’t spoken in six months. I told her everything. When the feelings, the sadness and numbness, rushed back, I told Sakura. She tried to talk me through it. It didn’t work, and I said some mean stuff. She gave back as good as she got, even more so. I came back to my senses and apologized.

I see loneliness in Sasuke. Should I talk to him about it? He is around so many people, and still lonely. Me too. I will try to fight it for him. I don’t know what he’s been through. Loneliness is torture. It is not my job to rescue him. I’m going to call Sakura. Six months ago, I sobbed at her over my decision not to call Stuart. I confessed that it wasn’t the first time he’d said things like that to me, although it was the most severe. She understood.


	11. Chapter 11

-Sasuke-  
I have sensitive skin after shaving. I wash my face and immediately put on moisturized afterward. Aftershave does nothing and it smells bad. So do most colognes. The cologne I wear for concerts is the only one I like. I digress. I have been here for months and am trying to find work again. Today is another day. I have been clean for almost four months. My family is helping me out with money. My dad and I are talking sometimes, but I talk to my mom and Itachi way more often. We all want me to get another job. A job. It has been awhile.

I am dressed nicely at six in the morning in another attempt to find a job. I have a criminal record and I never went to college. Is, I have a criminal record –so- I never went to college, more accurate? Fuck. In my old city, there were no job prospects. There were tons of drug addicts. It doesn’t feel like it’s so long in the past. Now, I wait for the 73 to take me downtown in the hopes of first locating, then applying at, a temp agency. Beneath the street lights, a pile glitters and crunches. Broken glass! In that moment, I am back in my old city. I look down in dread—I am poor all over again—and see that it is a pile of leaves. I am in a new city now and my parents are helping, I am reminded. It was a flashback. Just for a moment. But the memories are with me. It was rainwater glittering on the leaves.

Hours later, I storm home. It always ends this way. To make matters worse, I have to piss in a cup tonight to prove I’m not doing drugs. It’s so I can stay here. I wish it were otherwise. Are the other guys used to it? My roommates look up from their breakfast, concerned. I forgot that downtown is a vortex I get lost in. If you’re not a local, you won’t know where you are. It’s always on the other side of the freeway—any destination. Nahum sets his fork down. “I remember my first time getting lost there. I was with my best friend. We were exhausted when we finally asked for help an hour later. It was pouring and nearly freezing out. ‘That’s on the other side of the freeway,’ a sympathetic cop told us. We just looked at each other, then thanked him. We had no idea how to get there by bus, so we just went home. When I got my license and a car, I drove downtown to all the placed I’d tried to find by bus. So, change your clothes—oh, you don’t need to—and I’ll drive you to this temp agency.”  
“Okay,” I mutter, thankful, guilty and surprised. It is still no big deal for my roommates to drive me anywhere. The temp agency people are very polite. I need to apply online and they’ll call me for an interview. It was nice meeting me and they look forward to seeing me soon. Nahum laughs a little at how it all took less than five minutes. “There’s a birthday meeting tonight. Naruto’s secretary. He was asked at the last minute. There’ll be pizza and cake.” Ooh, pizza. And honestly…ooh, Naruto (but he’s my roommate!). “You’re on.”

Naruto bounces around eagerly at the meeting. Someone checks him out. A girl. Naruto doesn’t notice. Naruto had two pieces of cake and declares I should have one. I’m on my second slice of pizza. I shrug and take a piece of cake. “Come to the birthday meetings!” he shouts to the moderately-filled room. “You can have sugar! Sugar, sugar, pizza and more delicious cake! It’s sugar.”  
“Somebody’s sensitive to sugar,” Booker teases.  
“He’s a heroin addict. Duh,” Mitch points out.  
I sit with strangers to go out of my comfort zone. “I have so many financial issues,” one groans, leaning back. He can’t pay his rent, his car, nothing. He’s in a lot of debt. Recovery is not helping, but he is here tonight. “I got a DUI,” another man sighs. I roll my eyes. Oppression Olympics in 3…2… “I got my license revoked,” another man chirps. We stare at him. Why is he so cheery? That’s a big consequence!

The meeting is boring until the last twenty minutes. Two guys my age stand up. A sponsor and a sponsee. The sponsee has a year clean tonight and his sponsor hands him his key tag. He talks for ten minutes about how proud he is and the work they did. Then he hugs his sponsee for a long time. I am close enough to see that the sponsor has his eyes closed. I realize he’s crying.  
This is what keeps me coming back.


	12. Chapter 12

(Please be aware that the Boston Marathon attack is mentioned in this chapter.)  
-Naruto-  
Three months ago, the play ended. The day after, I half paid attention when Sasuke said he had four months clean. I didn’t get any roles. I haven’t for a few months. After three auditions in one week and no callbacks, I got a job at a temp agency. Some performers do that: switch between performing as their only job and when there’s no gigs, a temp job. I haven’t had a day job in a few years—I kept getting cast in plays. There was no need.  
Having a day job again is nice. I sleep better and go to new meetings. I still go to Rowan Tree. I cook dinner for the guys a lot. All eight of us eat a ton. The reason I eat so much ramen when I’m acting in a play is that it’s cheap, fast and can taste really good. I buy a ton. Sometimes, even now, I sneak it. It’s straight-up salt, but it has been a comfort food for awhile. I eat it at work sometimes too. I’m trying to eat healthier at work, usually salads for lunch. Ramen is faster sometimes. The job pays okay. It’s important to have one.  
“You wanna go to Marymoor? It should be low traffic. I invited Sasuke,” Kiba tries not to coax me, but be matter of fact. I love dogs. I like Akamaru.  
“Let’s go.”  
It is barely ten AM on a Sunday. The roomies and I had a nice pancake breakfast normally reserved for snow days. “Happy 4/20!” we bellowed at each other. April twentieth. A pot joke. Sasuke laughed. He’d skipped the pot phase and started out on Percocet, then continued. I did weed temporarily and got bored. Just a month. Heroin was next. We’d all get edibles today if we could, but we know those days are dead. Sasuke and I pile into the car.

Akamaru howls in the car. “Go to the dog park faster!” we howl, even Hinata. She has a sense of humor but is really shy. “We’re being serenaded,” she laughs as the dog howls louder in his crate. “So we’re watching the game at four. They’re making a speech for the Boston Marathon,” Kiba explains. “Our roommates?” I’m confused.  
“The first responders, I think. There might be a video montage.”  
“When we do watch a game, there’s a ton of food—”  
“Good!”  
“Is that appropriate?”  
“Yeah. I think. You guys…it’s Easter.”  
“So?”  
“A lot of addicts are estranged from their families. So—this is kind of our Easter.” Hinata has been trying to speak louder lately. I can hear her more.

I go to the dog park with Kiba, Hinata and Akamaru at least once a month. It’s fun. Lots of dogs to watch and pet. It’s off-leash. Akamaru hops around as we hook him on his harness and leash. He strains as we walk inside. The dog is off like a shot once Kiba unhooks him. He plays and plays with other dogs on the dirt path and tries to eat plants behind the strong fences. We make snide remarks about the areas that are fenced off because the herons have their nests and are trying to teach their babies how to fly. The fences are to protect dogs, humans and herons though. Hinata distracts Akamaru from eating grass further along in the park by tossing him a chew toy. We walk around a few times, then come back to the small man-made lake. Kiba pulls out a toy and throws it out. Akamaru plunges into the water without a second thought and swims dog-paddle to rescue the toy.

“Akamaru!” Kiba thunders. Akamaru swims to the edge of the lake. Boards nailed together create a small fence. Akamaru jumps helplessly and howls around his toy. He still can’t get out but has been coming here for years. “I’m going in,” Kiba declares and takes off his shirt. “No, you’re not.” Hinata holds up a hand. Splash! I grab Akamaru. My shirt and cell phone are in Sasuke’s hands. Hinata rolls her eyes.  
Grabbing Akamaru means bear-hugging him and kicking towards the lake’s edge. Kiba helps him get onshore, me pushing the dog up and Kiba guiding him onto the path. “See, this is why I wear old shirts to the dog park,” he explains cheerfully to Hinata. “And it’s why I pack towels in the trunk of the car,” she sighs. Akamaru shakes himself and water sprays everywhere. Sasuke hastily hands me back my things. They’re not wet. My shoes and jeans are soaked. As I put on my shirt and stick my phone in the breast pocket, Kiba and Hinata encourage Akamaru to keep shaking himself. He gets annoyed after the third time and starts to trot away. Sasuke smiles at that. We all follow the Rottweiler to the parking lot.

“I’m trying to teach him to swim,” Kiba protests and he and I put down towels on the seats we’ll sit on. “He can swim, he just can’t get out,” Hinata corrects him.  
“They have this argument every time we go to the dog park, Sasuke.”  
He nods and pets Akamaru’s nose through his crate. Akamaru was dried by all of us with the towels. “You have to come over,” I insist to Hinata.  
“I’m helping cook.” Hinata fiddles with her seat belt.  
“Hey, how’re we gonna wash Akamaru? We—”  
“Dog shampoo.”  
“I know that, moron. Be funnier. Where are we going to wash him?”  
“There’s at least four bathrooms I’ve seen,” Sasuke responds, chin in hand. He puts his chin in his hand whenever he’s in a car. “Wash him in one of the bathtubs. None of us will mind.”  
“I’m holding you to that, Sasuke.” Still, eight people, and somebody might decide to take a bath or something.

Akamaru wags his butt at everyone in the house and soaks up the attention. Kiba and Hinata carefully lead him upstairs. The Pekingese owner, the guy who relapsed, accidentally left a bottle of dog shampoo behind. Akamaru flicks his ears back when he recognizes the bottle. Five seconds later, Akamaru howls as his bath begins.  
“We should get another dog,” Jeremy suggests.  
Nate just looks at him. “…no.”  
“Can’t we talk about it at the next house meeting?”  
“No. Volunteer at rescue.”  
“…fine.”

I should go read some more N.A. literature. I’m procrastinating on step five. As I shuffle towards the stairs, there is a loud scrabbling of Rottweiler paws. “Dog on the loose!” Kiba shouts playfully. I run and pet Akamaru. Kiba always dries him with at least six towels before letting him run around. The guys run around, laughing as Akamaru chases and barks. He gets hyper after a bath. “Where’s the dog brush?”  
“In the car,” Hinata explains. She jingles her keys and walks out to get the brush.  
“Do we have playing cards?” Mitch asks. “Yeah,” Booker responds. “Why?”  
“There’s a game my family plays on Easter.” They step aside as Hinata walks over and brushes Akamaru. As she’s giving him his post-bath-and-brushing treat, I remember my original plan. The moment I open the green and golden book, there are voices in the entryway near the front door. I put the book away and trot over. Distraction!


	13. Chapter 13

-Sasuke-  
I walk into my room and dig around in the closet. I need a chair in here, damn it. For now, I play standing up. A chair and a professional page turned would be nice. The dog park was fun. I petted a puppy that turned out to be a Maltese/Poodle mix. She bit Akamaru when he sniffed her, so I stopped petting her.

A few nights ago, I went to Gloria’s to practice. Everybody was in their usual t-shirts and jeans, talking about whatever as we set up. “Hey, you guys?”  
We looked at Gloria.  
“My parents want us to do a paid gig. It’s for a benefit.”  
“Cool.”  
She grins at that. “We’re using here as a rehearsal space. The director will be here soon.”  
We try not to panic, instead just to tune our instruments. As we finish, a man walks into the room. “My name is Iruka. I will be your director.” He is tall and thin, with short brown hair and dark eyes. A scar extends across his face. He’s dressed to perform and I wonder if I’m the only one who’s self-conscious about having thrown on the only clothes that were clean this morning. The timing on this all is weird, but very Gloria: she probably arranged this with her parents weeks ago and forgot to mention it until now.  
“Did Gloria explain anything?”  
“No,” we chorus. He nods curtly. “I’ve been told that was the case. A friend of Gloria’s family commissioned everyone involved in this benefit.” He hands out slim, custom-bound books of sheet music to us. As we read the title and page through the music, we start laughing. “Get the giggles out,” he encourages us, which makes us laugh even more. “Underappreciated Songs From Beloved Childhood Movies,” is the title on the sheet music book. We will be playing parts from “Hamlet With Animals,” “A Sort-of Interspecies (She’s Half Fish) Love Story,” “Stockholm Syndrome,” and “A Beautiful Interracial Love Story that Didn’t Have A Happy Ending.” The person who came up with these titles has an unfortunately accurate sense of humor. Dark and sarcastic, but accurate.

“Who came up with these titles?”  
“The lady who put this all together,” Gloria explains. “She’s quite the character and is actually making me look forward to getting old if I can be that cool.”  
“How old is old?”  
“Eighty.”  
Surprised laughter.  
“You’ll meet her at the benefit.”  
“The benefit clocks in at one hour.” As Iruka speaks, we close the books and listen. “I transcribed the music with some friends of mine for you.”  
“Thank you! That’s amazing,” we call out.  
“It took forever,” he grumbles. He straightens. “Since we will be working together two and a half hours a day for the next month, we may as well introduce ourselves.”  
“I thought it was two months,” Gloria squeaks. She mumbles to herself about puberty being over and how squeaking is uncalled for. “It is, total. After this month, you’ll be rehearsing with the choir under another director.”  
“Is there a brass section in this?”  
“No. Brass tends to drown everyone out in children’s movie soundtracks. Choir and orchestra are understated anyway, hence the theme. Let’s go counterclockwise with introductions, starting with me. I’m still Iruka. I’ve been a director for twenty years, mostly in theater music pits. I’ve directed youth symphonies as well. For the last ten years, I have directed and taught orchestras at the university as a day job alongside pit and symphony work.”  
“When do you sleep?” asks Yehuda. Iruka laughs with us. “At night. I’m a big coffee drinker. I have two cats, no kids and have been married to my husband, Kakashi, for thirty years. Sometimes we skydive. Enough about me.”

Annika smiles tentatively. Her teeth still bring nasty remarks from people. Her dental team has been working to repair her teeth for two years. Her teeth are no longer rotten, but they are gapped, jagged and several were surgically removed. “I’m Annika. I’ve played the viola since fifth grade, so thirteen years now. I play soccer and have a community college degree. I don’t know what I’ll major in, but I’ve been accepted into the university on a soccer scholarship.” She flips her shoulder-length brown ponytail. “I’ve played sweeper on different teams since I was seven. Quick, somebody else go.”  
“Nice to meet you, Annika.” Iruka nods. Annika has meth teeth. She turned pale when she found out I was in N.A. I never talk about it unless a meeting conflicts with a rehearsal. It has only happened once. “I’m Amarion. I have perfect pitch and have been second violin since forever. I was originally really mad about it, but I was ten. I do spoken word on open mic nights. Sometimes I get my hair cornrowed, but mostly I wear it natural. I can’t dance worth shit. I’m almost done getting my teaching degree. I want to teach high school orchestra. Oh, and Annika and I shamelessly flirt with each other.” He grins as Annika blushes. “I’m not arguing.”  
Iruka smiles at that. “Focus here, Amarion. Ask her out if you want, but focus when you’re in here.”  
“I do.” He reaches to adjust his sheet music. His muscles show through his shirt. His hair is half-cornrowed today. If my hair was as thick and curly as Amarion’s, I would ignore it out of sheer frustration.

“I’m Yehuda.” He pushes up his glasses so he can see better. His hair is curly, but in a way that’s much looser than Amarion’s. “I play cello and have since I was thirteen. Like everybody else, I did youth symphony for awhile. It’s annoying that I have to use more fingers than anyone else to play. I mean, can’t I just change where my hand is? So. I want to play in theater pits again, hopefully as a career. I’m a wedding planner right now. Um…I’m a wine snob. I’m also a Red Wings fan.”  
“Traitor,” hisses Gloria.  
“I used to be a Colorado Avalanche fan, too,” I point out to Gloria. “Then the Red Wings—”  
Gloria covers her ears. “It’s hockey,” Iruka explains to Amarion and Annika.  
Gloria puts her hands back on her harp before it falls. Or is she just—I don’t know. Her dark brown hair falls down her back, expertly braided. She wears eye shadow often, ostensibly to accentuate her hazel eyes and olive skin. If I looked like her, I’d do the same. I don’t know a whole lot about makeup. “I’m Gloria. I play harp and have done so since I was nine, so I’ve learned to play music differently than most people. Some of the first things I learned how to do were to be entirely self-sufficient, read music, be punctual and question authority when needed. I made my own homecoming and prom dresses. When the time comes, I will make my own wedding dress and call Yehuda…I did youth hockey and played goalie. I get really, really mad when the Devils win the Stanley cup. My best friend has been in choir since forever and she is the one who helped get this together.”

“Nice to find out more about you, Gloria.” Iruka shifts his focus to me.  
“I’m Sasuke. I’ve been first violin since I was eleven. I never went to college. I live with a bunch of crazy roommates….Tomatoes are my favorite fruit. My favorite piece is actually Piano Sonata 14 in C-sharp minor—”  
“Show-off. Just call it the Moonlight Sonata like everybody else.”  
“Be quiet, Annika. Gloria and I are also rehearsing something from a Broadway musical. It has mostly singing parts in it, which I adapted for violin, and I left the harp parts intact.”  
Iruka names the song right away.

“How did you know?” I gasp. It was a meager description! “More than that, how did you know it was the reprise?”  
“You have no idea how many overambitious, under-talented violinists attempt that song for auditions. It’s six and a half minutes long!” He sighs. “I think only violinists with six or more years’ experience should attempt it. Good luck.”  
“Thanks.” I’m surprised.  
“Thank you for your introductions, everybody. Let’s begin.”


	14. Chapter 14

(Please be aware that the Boston Marathon attack is mentioned in this chapter.)  
-Naruto-  
I know right away they’re Mitch’s siblings. He looks happier than I’ve seen him in a long time as he hugs them hello and ushers them in. “How was your flight?” Kiba asks before anyone is introduced.  
“Terrible. We’re so hungover. God bless Bloody Marys.”  
“Speak for yourself,” one of Mitch’s sisters retorts, then turns to us. She has a mega-watt grin. “Hi, my name’s Bridget and I’m drunk.”  
“Hi, Bridget!” we shout out of habit.  
“Oh shit, we’re in a house full of alcoholics,” one of her brothers realizes. He keeps petting Akamaru.  
“Sober ones,” Nate points out as we walk to the kitchen. Bridget hurriedly explains that no one brought alcohol into the house. She offers to help cook. Mitch’s three other siblings—two brothers and one sister—cheerfully introduce themselves, as do we.  
Sasuke looks a little lost and I realize he doesn’t understand their accents. Mitch realizes it at the same time. They’re Boston Irish Catholics, which apparently means they talk funny, he jokes. “Remember where you came from,” the youngest sister says. Everybody gets involved in a huge conversation about Boston versus Seattle accents. “Seattle doesn’t have an accent!”  
“You do so.”  
“No.”  
Hinata and Bridget are doing three things each at once. They allow us to help us with three (small) things at once each. I’ve cooked a lot this week, so I bow out. Selfish. Don’t care. There are six different conversations going on as people cook or play with the dog. Bridget has sobered up and we can’t stop talking. She’s so cool.

“So hey, what got you guys here?” Booker asks, handing a bowl to Bridget. Mitch and his siblings fall silent. They all have red hair. Is it red hair when it’s orange? They all have orange-red hair and green eyes. Food is piled high on nearly every kitchen surface. “It’s—it’s been awhile since Mitch came home,” one of his brothers admits. “Our parents got really mad a long time ago and he came here,” the next brother says. Vague, but we understand. A lot of stories are like this.  
“It’s been three years and we miss him. Easter’s a big deal, so we’re here.” The roomies nod at that. “Set the table and start moving food,” Bridget instructs.  
“Is she the oldest?”  
“Yes. We’re seven years apart,” Mitch laughs.  
“Shut up,” his sister mumbles. We sit down to eat.  
“Do we say grace?”  
“No, we just stuff our faces after shouting, ‘Thanks, God!’” I can’t tell if Mitch’s youngest sister is being sarcastic. I soon learn she’s not.

Someone turns on the TV as we eat. Bridget and Hinata are really good cooks. I stuff my face as the guys argue about sports. Sometimes I watch soccer. “Clear your own plate,” Bridget snaps at someone. Jeremy collects dishes and Nate cleans the table. Some leftovers are put in the fridge. “Hey, the speech is starting,” Nahum points out as Hinata turns on the dishwasher. Everyone rushes in. It is really emotional. Mitch and his siblings, some of who are crying, explain who and what everything displays on the screen is.  
“What’s Boston Strong?”  
“An expression of support.”  
“What are the banners?”  
“Support.”  
“A year ago,” the TV announces, “A great philosopher said, ‘This is our…city.’” The Boston natives burst out laughing. “He’s not a philosopher, and he said ‘this is our fucking city.’ None of the TV networks censored it!” We all smile at that. I look over at Mitch. How did he get through? I wouldn’t have been able to get out of bed. He was here in Seattle, with us, when the Boston Marathon attack happened. His family was okay. So were his friends. He didn’t speak for three days though. His parents wouldn’t let him go home. He’s been sober three years and they still don’t trust him. It sucks. I sniffle.  
“Hey, why am I the only non-Boston person crying?”  
“What are you talking about, I’m over here with my cookies.” Hinata’s voice shakes as she wipes tears away. I am pelted with used tissues by my roommates. “Point proven,” I mumble. We sit for a moment. The oven beeps. We clean up and go investigate which desserts are baking. The TV is switched off. “Hey, you guys got playing cards?” one of Mitch’s brothers asks Nate. He nods and points upstairs. The run to get them. Bridget walks over. “The cookies are cooling.”

“What kind?”  
“Chocolate with white chocolate and raspberry syrup is over there. White chocolate macademia ones are still on the cookie sheet. There’s New York-style cheesecake with boysenberry or marionberry syrup for drizzling, or fresh raspberries. You guys have a ton of berries in your city.”  
“They come from rural areas.”  
“Oh. And if you like turtle cheesecake or vanilla ice cream, there’s that too.”  
“I’m stuffed,” Jeremy groans. “Can’t dessert wait a few hours?”  
“Yes,” Bridget states like it’s obvious.  
“So hey, here’s the rules for my family’s card game,” Mitch starts. He has a Boston Irish accent now. Sibling influence. They have laid packs on the table—one for each of them. “We’re splitting into two-person teams. There’s eight decks. I think this household is weird for having only one. Usually eight people at once play this game, and…” He explains the rules and says it’ll make sense after the practice round. “Get paper and a pen to track the points.”  
“Done.”  
“Shouting and swearing is perfectly normal. Bridget also distracts everyone with interesting stories while quietly, quickly laying down cards. This is why she’s very good at the game. Everybody choose a partner.”

I pick Sasuke, who understands their accents. It took an hour of him listening carefully, he murmurs to me. I smile. “Shuffle,” Mitch intones. Sasuke is playing first. “You guys shuffle like card sharks.” Mitch’s siblings laugh. “Go.” Eight people are a flurry of shrieking motion for half an hour. Sasuke makes some noises and slaps a few hands away from his pile. “Practice round’s over!” Mitch shouts when the cards are scattered all across the table. The players re-collect the cards and shuffle. We trade places and write our names down on the points sheet. “We do three rounds and eat dessert during, or in between rounds.”  
“Maybe Bridget can tell stories while she’s eating dessert…and not playing…” Jeremy suggests loudly.  
“Try again.”  
We set out our cards. “Go!” Within five minutes I’m groaning in frustration. Within ten, I’m swearing. I pound the table, holler at others to stop kicking butt and wail in defeat within two hours. I didn’t know I was that competitive. “Sore loser,” Booker teases as I sulk.  
“Shut up.”  
“You came in last, Naruto. Sasuke’s better than you and more pleasant.”  
“He’s on his best behavior.” Sasuke glares at me when I say that.

Over the next two hours, he proves those statements wrong. “Nahum! Aah!”  
“Ooh, sexy.”  
“Screw you!”  
“No.” Nahum and Jeremy walk over to get dessert. Sasuke whips out cards. He narrowly beats Nate to a spot. Hinata outdoes them both and smiles to herself. “Fuck it!” screams Sasuke as he lays down a card. “He doesn’t know how to swear,” Kiba teases, handing Hinata a plate of dessert.  
“Oh, you—”  
I laugh.  
“Sasuke, you flipped me off!” Kiba hollers.  
“I’m good with my hands.”  
“Sure. Let’s name you Fingers. Damn it!”  
“You mad on behalf of your girlfriend?”  
I stroll over to the desserts and happily munch away on one of everything. Mitch calls a break for dessert. I stand back up, then pause and refill my plate. I offer it to Sasuke. He doesn’t like sweets much, but he eats a bit of everything on the plate. The room is so quiet when there’s no card game. For five seconds.

We amble back to the table. Bridget looks around at everyone, and I think only I notice it. She smiles at me conspiratorially. Cards are laid out and flipped. “Oh, hey, I’m supposed to embarrass you with family stories!” We all groan. Mitch sighs. Bridget straightens. “Mitch is charming and social.”  
“Really?” the roomies ask. The siblings laugh. Maybe he is. He’s quiet here. “So am I,” continues Bridget. “I’m an evening person. He’s the crack of dawn type. When he was in the single digits, Mom and Dad had him watch cartoons so they could sleep. He learned to quit going into their rooms every five minutes, and went to mine so I could get a play-by-play of Sesame Street when I was too old for it.” She rolls her eyes.  
“Hey, channel nine was Power Rangers.”  
“You watched Sesame Street.”  
“He watched Power Rangers,” we, the roommates insist.  
“True friends!” his siblings proclaim. Five minutes later, Bridget wins round three.

Kiba and Booker win the game because of how the points are set up. It’s not two out of three. I’m still confused, and take my frustration at being last on a bowl of vanilla ice cream. I start messing with Sasuke and feel better. He snaps at me. I offer him whipped cream from my spoon. “Eat!”  
“No.”  
“Eat! Your saliva is part of me!”  
“What the fuck—hey, asshole!”  
“I was aiming for your mouth.”  
“Yeah, it’s so close to my forehead.” He grabs some and smears it on my shoulder.  
“This is my favorite wife-beater!”  
“What a vile label.”  
“I know. Still! Hey! My face!”

Sasuke laughs until I return the favor a second later. It winds up in his hair a little bit, and he rushes to clean it off. “I call truce,” I holler, planning pranks for later. He swears like a sailor. The others laugh. I clean myself up at the kitchen sink. Sasuke walks back downstairs, glaring. Twenty minutes later, Mitch’s siblings leave for their hotel and politely say thank you and goodbye. They’re staying a week so we’ll see them more. It is nearly one o’clock in the morning when Kiba, Hinata and the roommates finish cleaning up. Akamaru is grumpy that he didn’t get scraps, and even grumpier that Hinata’s leaving. She never stays the night. Kiba stays nights at her place often, though.  
“I had more fun tonight than I’ve had in months,” Nate informs no one in particular. “Your family’s awesome, Mitch. And you have an accent!”  
“I do not.”  
“You talk like them. It’s not a Seattle accent.”  
“It comes back sometimes,” the man admits as we climb the stairs.

Sasuke pauses in the doorway, probably because I’m standing close. “I still want a truce.” Well, I had to say something. The pale man who was recently so grateful about the weight he gained, smiles. He can’t see his ribs anymore. “Yeah right.” He doesn’t seem to mind us walking into the room together and sitting on the bed. His room is neat as a pin. We sit close. My hand brushes his. We look at each other. His hand is cold, so I reach to warm it in mine. He jumps, startled. I stop. He looks down, then back up, into my eyes as he takes my hand. “You got all the whipped cream off,” he notices. His voice is quiet. “You still have some in your hair,” I lie, stroking the spot I pretend is messy. “Liar,” he mutters, looking away. My hand travels over and down his jaw line. He puts his hands on my shoulders. Thankfully the door is shut.  
We lean in towards each other. I close my eyes after he does. His mouth is warm against mine. The kiss is gentle and long. We part and stare at each other. He walks over—“Wait!” That sounds more pathetic than I could have dreaded. “Shh. I’m turning out the light.” It clicks sharply and grants instant darkness. Sasuke spends a few minutes fumbling with, and then lighting, and carefully placing a zillion candles so they won’t create a fire hazard. The fucker stole the pretty patterned holders that cause light to dance on the walls. I was wondering where they’d gone.

Is he stripping or just taking off his clothes? Just taking them off. I do too, down to my boxers. I should be thinking about this. I should be finding it strange. I don’t know if his boxers are blue or black. Mine are orange. I can’t see his ribs, either. He looks fine. “You have some serious calf muscles.”  
“I walked twelve miles a day in my old neighborhood,” he shrugs. “Bad bus service.”  
We speak quietly. He crouches near the wall and turns on the space heater, then thinks better of it—the lit candles—and turns it off. “Can we get into trouble for this?” he whispers. “Don’t know. Don’t care.”  
“I can tell.”  
I roll my eyes at the comment.

He shuffles over to his bed and looks at it, then me. Sasuke pulls back the covers of the neatly made bed. The covers consist of a dark blue comforter and—oh, he kept the bedding we put on the bed. He just brought his comforter and a blanket to put on top of it all. And he brought his own pillow, so there’s two. It’s easier to sleep alongside someone if there’s pillows for each of you. “You first.” He gestures toward the bed. I crawl in and move to the far side, not knowing what to expect. He slides in beside me.  
“Cold feet! Goddamnit, Sasuke!”  
He laughs as I squirm. “We should be quiet,” he reminds me.  
“You started it.”

We lapse into silence.  
“What time are you getting up tomorrow?” Romantic.  
“Whenever I want. My temp job finished and I’m looking for another. You?”  
“Same.”  
Silence.  
“Do you just—want to sleep tonight?”  
Nothing is happening. He sighs. “Probably. This should go slow.”  
He said “this” and not “we”. I’m disappointed. I had an expectation and was let down. Well, I was –hoping- for more, not expecting it, but in N.A. it’s the referred to the same way.  
It’s nice to lay beside someone after so long.


	15. Chapter 15

-Sasuke-  
“How the fuck does dating your roommate work?” I gripe. “Just say you’re living with your boyfriend,” he suggests. “It sounds classy.”  
“I don’t have nine months clean yet. Jesus Christ, I’ve been living here almost nine months.”  
“I’ve been living here a lot longer. So how slow are we talking?”  
“We kissed. You slept in my bed. Any suggestions? Any rules?”  
“I have to tell Sakura,” he blurts out. I say something that would even irritate Shikamaru and then, “Nothing in public except holding hands and hugging. Meetings are public.”  
“Done.”  
“Let the guys figure it out.”  
“Okay.” He looks worried for a second.

“No sex till we’ve been together ninety days.”  
“Hey, I’ve heard that before!” Naruto brightens. “It’s a good idea. That, and we don’t attend the same meeting at the same time except once a month.” It’s so an addict can share without holding anything back. I knew a couple in AA who attended a lot of the same meetings and when the meetings had finished they’d be sniping or even screaming at each other. Mostly, people get nervous about sharing in front of people they’re involved with.

Naruto and I talk for an hour, sometimes disagreeing and negotiating. We type the final agreement out and e-mail ourselves copies. It might seem bizarre, but sticking to this will help me be normal and not relapse if something goes wrong. Shikamaru told me awhile ago that I wouldn’t be allowed to date until I did my ninth step. I was furious. This was even before I met Naruto. I’d rather keep the relationship secret. I want this, with him. I can beat the odds in recovery. Shikamaru once said I was, even, because I got into recovery young (at age twenty as opposed to thirty) and stayed clean for long stretches of time. That was a long time ago. I can have a relationship just fine. Naruto has a ton of clean time.  
We see each other in the evening now. I have a non-temp job, a permanent job, as an office assistant and I have to be there are seven AM until three PM. I enjoy my job, so it’s fine.  
“Hey, it’s our three-month anniversary,” Naruto remarks. It feels like we’ve only been together a week. Oh shit. Well, addicts are famous for freaking out about every little thing. Still—how do normal people handle sober sex? Naruto takes my hand. “We won’t do anything unless both of us want to,” he reminds me. I am comforted by his kiss on my forehead. Do I want to wait? What am I supposed to say? Is he going to treat me like glass? I need to call Shikamaru. He never traded sex for drugs, but he’s nonjudgmental and can explain this all to me. How am I supposed to do this?  
“Do you have to go to your orchestra thing soon?” Naruto takes my hand.  
“Yeah.” I’m relieved, both that he’s switching topics and that I can get out of the situation. When I’m playing, it’s all I’m doing. It’s immediate, and in that moment, I have my shit together. It is always only a moment, even if the clock says differently.

“If anyone needs any aspirin, it’s in the bathroom,” Gloria calls as we seat ourselves. “It’s always been in the bathroom,” she realizes. We know, and smile a little. “There’s no shame. Our hands always hurt at some point.” She puts her foot on the harp pedal as I put my violin under my chin. The thin rubber band has held the shoulder sponge securely for years. It’s never stopped. It’s wrapped around the chin cup and under the violin, so if it did snap, I’d lose an eye. Orchestra’s dangerous.  
When I get home, it isn’t light out. My fingers shake and are stiff. My hands and wrists hurt. The aspirin is obviously fake. What a horrible lie the pills were! I took two, even. “Ow,” is all I can groan to my roommates as they stare in fascinated disgust. “Were you trying to be Lindsey Sterling? If you were, you did it wrong.”  
“No. Rehearsal was long. I admire Lindsey Sterling but I can’t and won’t move like her. I wanted to be part of the Trans-Siberian Orchestra when I was eighteen, but I didn’t make it.” Every sentence is tinged with pain. Not emotional—my hands are beginning to burn. At my quiet request, Nahum fills a bowl with ice water.  
I submerge my hands and want to scream. It will pay off. I can’t move for fifteen minutes if this is to be done correctly. I can waggle my fingers out of it to prevent frostbite, or so I was told by an adult twelve years ago. “Get away, you fuckers,” I half-plead from my spot at the kitchen table. “Suffer, asshole,” they respond. Mitch and Booker are poring over a cookbook. Nate is poking at a fish fillet on the stove. I breathe deep. My hands are soon numb, and I sigh in relief. Ten minutes in, the guys are done eating and they leave. I pretend that I’m waggling my fingers “goodbye” at them behind their backs. Naruto and Nahum walk in and wave, confused by my waggling fingers. I explain and submerge my hands again.

“You want a smoothie?” Nahum pours a berry mix and some yogurt in the blender. “Sure.” For some reason, late-night smoothies sound really good. The blender roars as I glance at the clock on the wall. Three minutes to go. “Keep your hands in the water,” Nahum instructs as he pours the thick liquid into tall glasses. “Naruto can feed yours to you. He needs to learn to quit poking glasses when someone is drinking—they get startled and spill on themselves. He thinks it’s funny.”  
“I haven’t done that in months,” Naruto protests. He sits in front of me. I will bite him if he tries anything. Naruto tilts the glass really slowly and waits for me to open my mouth for more.  
“Are you having me keep my mouth open for so long because it turns you on?”  
“No, I just don’t want you to choke,” he mutters. Okay then. Nahum leaves the kitchen, laughing. The smoothie is really good. I didn’t realize I was thirsty.  
The kitchen is not a good place to have an intimate conversation, but we’re alone now and I need to tell Naruto—who is setting up for more pranks. Our roomies will find out in the morning. I can wait. I shake my head. Still a kid at heart, still wants attention.

I follow him up the stairs. I’m going to sleep. Naruto can wait till morning. I hear a door open as I reach my own. The other door closes gently and Naruto shuffles to me, grinning. I narrow my eyes in mistrust tinged with curiosity about whatever he’s doing, and we walk into my room. I have figured out how to close the door silently. Naruto flops down on my bed. The puffy white comforter makes a ‘poof’ noise and shifts slightly under his weight. “You are far too comfortable there,” I grumble.  
“Well, I slept here once. It’s more comfortable under the covers.” He looks over at me as I strip down to my boxers, not caring.  
“Move,” I demand. “I am getting under said covers so I can sleep.”  
“Can I join you?” Naruto asks eagerly.  
“I thought you weren’t supposed to talk this much.”  
“I thought you figured out I don’t follow rules for very long.”

I look up at the ceiling, flat on my back. My hands are warm again and I can move my fingers just fine. The ice water is a miracle, unlike the damn aspirin.  
“Well?” Naruto gets up to blow out the candles and turn on the space heater. His jeans and t-shirt are in a heap on the floor.  
“If I say yes, will you be quiet?” It is dark except for light leaking under the door from the hallway.  
“No.” Naruto slips beneath the covers and snuggles me. The house is so quiet. The hallway light clicks off as the space heater clicks to a higher level. My heart pounds. My loud roommate has never been so quiet.  
His warm breath on my neck raises goosebumps on my arms. He moves his legs and the covers fall away as he straddles me. The room is warm, so the air rushing as he shifts doesn’t bother me. He pushes his knees to my hips and moves to entwine our legs. I’d be annoyed if I weren’t so turned on. His hands settle on my shoulders. Our chests are touching. He is heavy on top of me. I can feel his heart beat. He is so warm. This is…close. It feels good for a few minutes, until I have trouble breathing. He raises slightly. “This okay?”  
“Yeah. Goddamnit, get back here.”  
“Hang on a second. I’ll be back.”  
Bastard.

He returns and plugs something—a night light—into the wall. Small square objects fall from his hand as he does so. He holds a bottle in his other hand and picks up whatever the squares are. I pull back the covers for him. He has condoms and a bottle of lubricant in his hands. He places them on the nightstand. “I wanted to look at you,” he whispers. He has a spiral tattoo under his navel. I look lower, then reach to take his boxers off.  
“Hey, get on top of the covers so I can return the favor.”  
I do. As the cloth slides down my legs, I realize I should have told him sooner. As much as I don’t want to, I look him in the eye.  
“I’ve only had sex with dealers, not counting when I lost my virginity. That night was also the only night I had sex and didn’t get drugs afterward. I don’t—know what to do.”  
“Do you have HIV?”  
“No, I always insisted on condoms. No STDs, either. You?”  
“No STDs, HIV, no sex with dealers. Sasuke…we’ll just do what feels good.” He is quiet as he looks at me, and I realize he’s waiting for me to tell him how to touch me. I do, and close my eyes.  
His hands are large and warm. He runs his fingertips over my erection and strokes my testicles. I had forgotten how good this felt. With one hand, he masturbates me slowly. 

Breathing calmly proves difficult as his hand moves faster. He lets go as I begin to thrust. I run my hands through my hair, frustrated. What—“Spread your legs and lift up your hips.” Oh. “This isn’t the heating lube.”  
“Okay. Use a lot.”  
“Why, do you get nervous?” His fingers slide in and out.  
“No.” No, my last dealer thought any kind of lube was for first-timers and sneered at me. He made me bleed often. “Just a personal preference.” The cap keeps clicking. He keeps closing the bottle. He doesn’t want any to spill on the bed.  
“Are three fingers enough?”  
“Yeah.”  
Naruto curls his fingers. I arch my back. He smiles and wipes his hand on the sheet, then opens a condom packet. I lower my hips and watch him put the condom on. We get back under the covers and look at one another. I haven’t had sex in a year. Naruto’s penis doesn’t hurt—the lube probably helps. I move against him. He’s going so slowly. 

“We have all night. Just…when guys are gentle with me, it doesn’t do much physically. I want you to see me come tonight.” Oh shit. I’d meant to say something else. Naruto stares at me as I blush. “Things will be different tonight.”  
“I know.”  
“You ready?” he asks.  
“Yeah.” My throat is dry. Why is my heart beating so hard?  
“Keep going,” I groan. His hands grip my hips as we move faster against each other. When his hands travel over my chest, I arch against him. He changes his rhythm. My hands are on his back and they curl into claws. I moan and close my eyes as I drag my clawed hands down his back. I haven’t been fucked this well in a long time. He kisses me hard as I tilt my neck upward. Naruto pulls me so we’re both sitting up. I put both my hands on the back of his neck as his tongue enters my mouth. He pauses to bite my lower lip, hard. I pull away. My hands are by my side. “That hurt.” Did he—am I bleeding? No, just sensitive. “Good.” He pushes me back down after…watching to see if I’d tell him to stop, I think. It felt good…but it hurt. Am I masochist or something?

The sheets start to tangle. They feel warm against my back. Naruto’s teeth graze my neck. We’re both sweating. He licks my jawline and then all the way down to my collarbone. I sigh and cover my eyes with an arm. He stops biting, stops moving completely.  
“Nobody was supposed to know.”  
“What, that your neck is one of the most sensitive parts of your body? So are your nipples.”  
I jerk my arm down to cover them immediately as my eyes widen.  
“So’s your cock,” he continues. “It’s the same for all guys. I won’t touch you anywhere you don’t want to be.”  
I lower my arm at that. “Okay, yeah, I get turned on when my neck is bitten or something,” I admit, annoyed. “Hickeys, pretend vampirism—is it called that? You know, where you suck on a person’s neck or wrist, and leave marks, and bite them a little— I also know you like getting choked a little and slapped around…”  
Naruto counts on his fingers as I speak.  
“Jesus Christ, am I that easy to read?”  
“Puppy play…you’re so boring, Sasuke.” We laugh a little.  
“Now that I listed off some of your shockingly common turn-ons, may I continue what I was doing?”  
“Yeah.”

Okay, he clearly does the pretend vampirism thing for himself. I swear he’s trying to draw blood from my neck. He sucks as hard as he bites, and I cry out even louder when he pushes my neck closer to him with one hand. I’m about to come. Naruto frees his mouth from my neck and I fall back. Given how hard he’s thrusting his hips, I’m surprised the condom hasn’t broken. We’re both dripping with sweat. He breathes hard and kisses me again. I raise my hips and meet his thrusts faster. His shout fills the room. We’re so loud. I move further up the bed and place a hand flat against the head board. Naruto slows. My hand slides slowly down, coming to rest on a pillow.  
“Is the movie reference your way of saying you can’t handle me in bed?” He grins.  
“No, I just didn’t know where else to put it. I ah—I move my hands—harder, keep going—sometimes during great sex.” I wipe the sweat off my face and try to catch my breath. A strangled moan escapes me as Naruto masturbated me again. His hands are slick. “Oh fuck,” I moan helplessly. I had hoped to last longer. My semen splashes onto us both. Naruto wipes his hand across my chest. His shoulders shake and his closes his eyes as he comes a few minutes later. My body jerks as he pulls away from me. He removes the condom slowly and disappears into the bathroom. I’m soaked in sweat and partially-dried semen. I need to shower more than he does.  
“Hey, get up and we’ll change the sheets.”  
When I don’t, he yanks the thoroughly tangled covers off me. I bolt upright.  
“Thought so.”  
I shake my head, then check to see what time it is. “An hour…that’s okay, right?” Not that I care.  
“You’re doing fine, Sasuke.” That would have been a compliment if he hadn’t laughed. I decide never to have sex again and walk to the shower.  
“Wait for me.”  
“No,” I grumble, turning the spigot.  
“You’re selfish and self-centered,” he whines as I step under the stream of water with a bar of soap and a bottle of shampoo.

It’s ten minutes alone. Ten minutes to think. I’m okay. It felt—it was amazing. Having semen smeared across my chest was new. I guess it was okay. It got Naruto off. Post-sex showers are satisfying. I stop the stream of water. I dry myself carefully and put the towel back on the rack. My legs are steady again.  
“Your turn.”  
“I changed the bed without you.”  
“I can see that.”  
“It’s clean now. Okay, I’m getting in the shower and I’m using all your soap and shampoo.”  
“Have fun.” I sit on the edge of the bed and look at the pile of soiled bedding in the corner. The smells of sweat and semen hang in the air. Should I open a window? The room will be cold, but it will smell better. The closet’s open. I never thought to look for spare bedding in there.

Naruto walks out ten minutes later and immediately complains that it’s cold, and something about shrinkage and—“Leave the window open. The room reeks. We’ve seen each other naked. We’re still naked. Your ego is fragile.”  
“You asked if an hour was enough,” he points out waspishly. His hair sticks up everywhere. I combed mine. He shuts the window and I roll my eyes. “Do you get turned on swallowing during blowjobs?”  
“Yeah.” He sits next to me. “I like getting on my knees the most. Under the covers, it’s hard to see a facial expression. Why?”  
“You smeared semen on my chest…I figured swallowing might be another turn-on.”  
He looks down. “I see you want to try it.”  
Mentally, I answer my question from earlier: I am that easy to read.

“Stand up,” he coaxes. “There’s no shame. I’m being of service by getting you off sober.”  
“We just finished fucking half an hour ago.”  
“Is this too much?”  
“It’s fine,” I sigh. “I haven’t had this much sex in…um…”  
“You’ve never had sex all night, have you?”  
“I have a few times. Sober, even. It was with the guy I lost my virginity to.”  
“How long ago?” my boyfriend asks, sinking slowly to his knees. He smirks at my reaction.  
“Awhile.” I count in my head as Naruto opens his mouth. “Ten years.”  
Naruto stops. “Okay, your voice sounds hot like that.”  
“Well, you try speaking calmly while getting a blowjob.”  
“Oh, I’d love to. Want me to recite the monologue for my audition during?”  
“You can…recite whatever you want.”

He can suck really hard. “Not so much,” I growl. He eases the pressure and then uses his tongue for a few minutes. My gaze is on the wall the entire time.  
“Why’d you stop? That felt really good.”  
“You’re not looking at me,” he pouts.  
“I am now.”  
“Thank you.” He puts his hands behind his back and interlaces his fingers. He proves his point—that he doesn’t need to use his hands—shortly. I bury my fingers in his hair. He moves and I swear, surprised, as he deep-throats me. He doesn’t have a gag reflex.  
“Naruto—I—” I push him back. He rolls his eyes. “I don’t want you to choke. Fucker! Don’t bite! I—” As quickly as he bit me, he goes back to sucking. He holds onto my hips to prevent me from falling as I come. Naruto swallows my semen and curls his tongue before pulling back slowly. I lay down on the bed. Never had a guy curl his tongue before. Little details.

“You want me to return the favor?” I offer, once I remember how to talk.  
“No, I just want you to watch me masturbate. I’ll come on the dirty sheets. Do you cuddle after—I mean, do you want to cuddle after this?”  
“You’re sleeping here tonight. We’ll be cuddling.”  
“Good.” He smiles, then reaches down.


	16. Chapter 16

-Naruto-  
Booker stirs his coffee and takes a big gulp, then spits it out. “Salt instead of sugar! And I fell for it! I was just trying to get so—to wake up,” he finishes lamely.

“It’s the cornerstone of bad roommate behavior.”  
“Getting breakfast?”   
“Having loud sex without warning the others! No one ever thinks they’re that loud, Naruto!”  
“It was mostly me,” Sasuke mutters.  
“Bullshit. You both woke me up,” Booker slurs, and spills juice on himself accidentally. He yelled at Jeremy for opening the blinds this morning. Oh no…Nate taps him on the shoulder. They leave the room.  
“You guys were at each other all night. We were gonna hear eventually.”  
“Good morning to you, too, Mitch.”  
“I’m happy for you! My priest talked last Sunday about how orgasms with someone you like a lot are a gift from God. He would prefer them to be within a marriage, though.”  
Sasuke has creative ways to swear. Nahum cannot stop laughing.  
“This is because I’m Catholic, isn’t it?!” Mitch shouts.  
“No! You’re trying to tell us to get married!”  
“You can if you want,” Nahum and Mitch offer.  
“I’m going to work,” Sasuke grumbles. The door slams behind him. He has a huge mark on his neck. I didn’t do the cold spoon treatment. I curled against him after we finished last night.

I have to tell Sakura. It’s a good idea for addicts to tell their sponsors when they start dating and fucking, and who. Plus I need to do step six with her. I microwave a breakfast sandwich. I never really cared about my sodium intake. I scarf the sandwich down and rush to change my clothes. Being a dishwasher is more exciting than a temp job. I get to move around! I walk through the doors and turn my phone off before setting my stuff down.  
At break, two new table bussers introduce themselves as I scrawl notes to myself on a legal pad. It was a parting gift to myself from a boring job I had. There were five other legal pads in the same drawer anyway. I know which monologue I’m doing for the next audition, and I’m sending in an audition tape to different places in New York to try and get on Broadway. Will Broadway have me improvise a monologue? Fuck. I know Village Theater will, after the one I recite. I’m good at improv and comedy, but I really want to try more dramatic roles. I’ve picked out both songs I’ll sing. Old theater friends of mine will help me with the alternate. Snapdragon is helping me with the main one. I tap the pencil against the pad, thinking.

“Hey Naruto, what’s got you so quiet?”  
“I’m planning something so amazing that you’ll refer to me as ‘Your Esteemed Lordship’ for the rest of your lives.”  
“Ooh, are you going to wear the kilt and knee socks? My grandparents are Scottish. You don’t look Scottish.”  
“Part Dutch.” I stop tapping the pencil and look over. “I just think ‘Your Lordship’ sounds cool. I know it refers to judges in Scotland though.”  
“Yeah, that’s how they’re addressed in court.” Heather smiles. I hope I didn’t piss her off. She starts talking about her family. Turns out her grandfather did work in the legal system. And he wears a kilt and knee socks.  
I jot down more notes after Heather leaves. Maybe I should learn a Scottish accent. I can do various Canadian ones, American Southwestern ones…I have been an actor for a long time and cannot manage a British one. My Russian one sounds Irish. Where was I? I have to call Pansy the Awesome Photo Lady. She’s well-known in performance art communities. I’ve met her a few times. She had a loud, easy laugh and is very friendly. Pansy’s a freelance photographer who does headshots for performers outside her day job. She charges a flat fee and is honest in her work and conduct, everyone says. My parents always paid. She’s in the triple digits. I’m paying now, for two different sessions because it’s two different theaters. I finally have the money.

How will I react to performing in a big theater, if I get into the big theater? I’ve performed at Theater Off Jackson a bunch of times. It seats a hundred people, as does…where I started out. That theater shut down a few years after I left. Annex Theater only seats thirty people. I rehearsed there for three months and performed once. Village Theater seats a lot more than that. It has box office and balcony seats…I try to never look out at them onstage. It makes me dizzy. And then there was Meydenbauer. It seated four hundred and ten people, and my knees shook every time I looked out. It was one level. I’ve performed there in six different productions. Once you get to such a large performance venue, you’ve made it. But Broadway…is so different. I have to go there!

My voice hurts as I walk in the door that night. Snapdragon is helping me a lot. I drink a smoothie and shuffle to my bedroom. I hear quiet, quick footsteps and turn to see Sasuke striding past the doorway. I hear him walk carefully down the stairs. Was that a violin case in his hand? He rushes by again, then back down the stairs with a music stand and a book the size of the N.A. step working guide. I leave a voicemail for Pansy and finish my e-mail to the theater. I’ve sent the same e-mail so many times, the one to set the audition. Before the internet was popular, we did it over the phone or in person. Name, age, cell phone number, e-mail. They know all this. They know me. I’m auditioning for a general audition, please, and will bring my resume and a few 8x10 headshots and sheet music the day of. Let’s do it in two weeks. Send. The monitor darkens as the computer shuts down. I’m gonna bug my roommates so I can relax.  
That’s creepy—they all line the stairs leading to the den and they are silent, staring at the door. Where’s—I hear a violin. Sasuke’s playing. They don’t want him to know they’re listening. I don’t care, and walk down the stairs as they shush me. Several directors have hollered that I walk like an elephant onstage and off. Walk like a deer, they insist. It doesn’t come naturally. I barge in and plunk myself down on the floor, watching the violinist. He ignores me and turns a page.  
Is he playing—he hits a wrong note. “I’m still not part of the Trans-Siberian Orchestra. Go away.” He is playing it. I’ve been singing it a capella for a long time. His fingers shake. “Are you nervous?”

“It’s called vibrato. It’s deliberate.” His voice is muffled because the violin covers his chin and he can’t move it.  
“I know the song. I can turn the pages.”  
“Will it get you to shut up?”  
I am silent. The first time I heard this song, I cried through the second half. It’s the reprise. The second time, I burst into tears at the end and sobbed. Half the reason I’m singing it at auditions in two weeks, is so I won’t cry at it anymore. Sasuke is a really good violin player. I sniffle in spite of myself. Even the violin version makes me cry. “The end note is supposed to be vibrato,” I correct him thirty seconds later.  
“Is not.”  
“Is too.”  
“Maybe the singing version.”  
“Have you seen the play or DVD?”  
“Yes. Have you?”  
“Repeatedly.”

We glare. I shake my head and stomp back up to the kitchen. Nahum walks beside me on the stairs.  
“Trouble in paradise?”  
“Just a face-off between two performers.”  
“I only shared because my sponsor wanted me to,” Mitch whines to someone on the phone. Everyone is back upstairs except Sasuke and—“Where’s Booker?” Sasuke walks up.  
“He moved his stuff out while you were at work. He relapsed and tried to lie about it, Sasuke.”  
Nahum’s cell phone goes off. He talks to someone and reaches for me—pay attention, Naruto.  
“Kiba’s missing.”


	17. Chapter 17

-Sasuke-  
“You guys are fucking unbelievable,” I hiss at Kiba and Nate. Mitch and Nahum found Kiba last night. He had been missing for eleven hours. We called everyone in the Seattle area N.A. We went through his A.A. phone lists, even. That was awkward. No one knew where he was. It was one o’clock in the morning and we had been searching outside for two hours when Mitch and Nahum called us over.  
Turns out Kiba has a history as a gutter drunk, facedown and everything. He decided to repeat it.  
Nate failed his UA. He said nothing and stood still. I don’t know what he was thinking.

“Stuff your pride and ego, asshole.” Kiba struggles with a large box as Nate walks out carrying a suitcase is one hand, a backpack on his back and a tote bag on his head. Where did he learn to balance like that? Damn. He loads his stuff in the car much faster than Kiba. “Have fun smoking crack in your apartment,” Nahum sneers.  
“Try again. I’m moving in with Hinata. I still have her, my dog and my job.”  
“You’re such a—”  
“Seriously, three guys getting kicked out in six days? The rest of us should just fucking jump ship,” Naruto suggests acidly. “You just hate roommate interviews.” Nahum walks back into the kitchen. I turn back to my food. “Nate!” Naruto shouts as I load my dishes. “You had long-term sobriety! A multiple of years! What was so bad in your life? You could have talked to us! What were you thinking?”  
“Is that the last of your stuff?” Nate asks Kiba. “Yeah.” Akamaru digs his claws in the floor, unwilling to move. He tries to wriggle out of his harness, and looks at us so sadly. Everyone drops to the floor and pets and snuggles him. There is some sniffling involved. Kiba lets us have our moments for a total of twenty minutes. “Let’s go, Akamaru,” he says softly, finally. Akamaru turns and growls. Kiba cajoles, grumbles, and finally coaxes him out the door with promises that we can visit the Rottweiler. The door slams behind them.

“What happens now?”  
“We use their stories as interview questions to humiliate them behind their backs.”  
“They will have no clue.”  
“The shame will reach them in their dreams.”  
“Naruto, it happens. Put it on your inventory that you have trouble adjusting.”  
“I do not.”  
Nahum crosses his arms.  
“Okay, a little, sometimes. Don’t you?”

Nahum ponders this. “I’ve lived in two Oxford houses in three years. I’ve relapsed and gotten kicked out.”  
“Me too,” Mitch interrupts, holding a full laundry basket. “Are they gone?”  
“Yeah,” I respond. “Nice using the laundry as an excuse not to be there.”  
“Hey, it was dirty. And I can’t stand the tension when people are kicked out.”  
“I have also moved out—the last house I was in was sold by the landlord,” Nahum continues.  
“Is he gonna do that here?”  
“He hasn’t said anything, but with the turnover rate like this, now…” Nahum looks out the window and fiddles with the loose strings on the hem of his worn shirt.  
“Where’s Jeremy? Who the hell bought coffee and left the container open? I can smell it from here,” Mitch grumbles. He puts his laundry away. “At work. I did. The container’s shut. New ones can sometimes smell like they’re open.” Naruto sets his phone down. “God, I’m starving.”  
“Leftovers!” Mitch points to the fridge.  
“Boring!” counters Naruto. I think, unbidden, of the food bank and how every other week, I’d be given largely the same food. “So cook something.” Mitch and Naruto are arguing over food? Seriously, when they can just buy whatever they want? I look at the clock and leave for a new meeting. I still have a place to live. I’m going to a new temp job tomorrow. I have food now, healthy food. And I’m clean and sober. “Does anyone with less than thirty days clean want a white keytag to chew on?”  
The group laughs.  
“Oh c’mon. That’s what you’re doing the first thirty days anyway.”

I take pages of notes during the first day of training, much to my supervisor’s delight. Weird noises came from Nate’s room last night. Drawers opened and closed behind the door I pass to go downstairs. He was shuffling things around. The strange metallic clicks were him shutting his belongings in. He was packing his suitcase as most of us slept. Nate had wanted to leave as soon as possible. None of us seem too angsty about it. After the end of it, when the door slammed behind them, we all left for work. Nahum went to shut the doors of the now-vacant rooms. Why couldn’t Nate and Kiba have slammed those, too? “Speak slowly. Don’t rush the name of the company—it’s on the sheet with everybody’s extensions. I was nervous when I started.” Booker has been here two years. I am so glad to see him again, and it’s awesome to see him outside of a meeting. Where did he move? It’s so weird to think he’s not coming home.

He saved up a week of vacation time, so I’m replacing him till he gets back. “I said Waif Calvin once instead of Winter Faith Collections, and the person was so confused. I corrected myself and explained I was new, and nervous. The person didn’t mind.” I sigh in relief at his anecdote. He grins. “And you get an hour for lunch at one. You have to take the whole hour. Caprice and Conisha—”  
“Really?”  
“Nepotism at its finest. Caprice and Conisha will cover for you at their desks. Here’s how to forward calls to them.” Click-click-click. I scribble wildly as he dials.  
“Need me to slow down?”  
“No, I’m good.”  
“Okay, let me see you do it. No, not that one!” He chuckles.  
“Oh shit,” I gasp. Click-click-click.  
“See, this is what training is for. So do it again. Great! Okay, it just so happens to be one o’clock. Let me show you the break room.”  
This temp job has had the friendliest people so far, and the best training. “Anything that’s not labeled in the fridge or freezer is communal property. The giant bags of junk food on the counter are silently begging to be eaten.” My stomach growls. Booker laughs easily. “Have at it, Sasuke.” I don’t need to be told twice.  
“Hey, new kid!”  
I turn, holding a bowl of junk food heaped to the brim. Conisha grins as Caprice waves Booker and I over. We sit down together at the sleek teak table. “So, do you play cards, Sasuke?”

I shake my head.  
“Damn. We have card games and virgin knockoffs of alcoholic drinks every Friday at different bars on the Ave.”  
“I go to my homegroup.”  
“Lighten up, sweetie. We branched out, went last night, went to a new place and got so lost, and in the park! We were trying to find Caprice’s car at midnight.”  
“I can make extra coffee,” I offer. They burst out laughing. “This guy, right here, will take care of us. Booker, did you show the new kid the booze?”  
“Oh, I forgot.” He ushers me over to the fridge. I carry my bowl with me and crunch on junk food. Seriously, booze in a fancy office? With three alcoholics in permanent, valued positions?  
“There’s a bottle of wine in the fridge.” He points at the lowest shelf. “And vodka in the freezer.”  
“Are you serious?” I stare at the familiar bottle with the clear liquid. Wisps of cold air rush out around it.  
“Our supervisors like to drink on crazy days. They leave us alone and they will you. We all know better.” Booker steers me back to the table. I sit down, hard.  
“So seriously, I was covering for you last week—”  
“Thank you, Caprice. You’re the love of my life.”  
“You must marry temps left and right, then. So I get in, dial in, switchboard and all that, and someone left a message past midnight. A new client! Wide awake! What, who does that?”  
“Somebody nocturnal.” I crunch some of the last bits of junk food. “The switchboard’s automated after five anyways.”  
“Good listener.” She sighs. “I foresee a ton of phone tag and my boss making vampire jokes.”

It’s Friday already. Two hours ago it was Monday. I touch one of my bobby pins. I’m wearing only two—my hair is gathered in a three-inch ponytail, with a bobby pin above each ear for added security. It’s been so long since I’ve put my concert cologne on. I wear it for good luck. Every performer has something for good luck. Gloria wears special earrings. Annika paints her fingernails orange. Amarion wears thin yellow socks, and Yehuda wears contacts instead of glasses. His glasses darken under bright light, he explained once. Contacts are better for performing.  
I asked Naruto what his good luck thing was, before I arrived tonight. There was a flurry of movement in response. With a proud grin, he held up bright blue boxers I had never seen him wear before. Green cartoon frogs were all over them. Naruto put them away as I dressed quickly. It’s still a habit, after all these years, to rush around getting ready.

Backstage buzzes with activity. My friends grin. It’s unspoken—we are all excited about every step. Putting on the concert clothes and good luck things, pushing bobby pins into hair past the ears and—performing. I wander around, hoping to find a bathroom. Gloria joins me. She’s looking for a water fountain or cooler even though we’re not supposed to drink anything before performances. Our instruments are all in the green room. We didn’t know where else to put them and—Gloria bumps into me as I realize what the choir member is doing so calmly in front of the bathroom mirror. “She has no shaving cream! She’s not even paying attention to—well, she kind of is, but she’s talking to another singer. He armpits—doesn’t that hurt? Won’t she bleed?”  
Gloria just laughs. “Dry shaving, when done carefully, isn’t as dangerous as people think it is.”  
“Hey, the water cooler’s right there.”  
“Oh good! It’s near the bathroom backstage, gonna remember that.” We return onstage to see the four-person choir squabbling with Iruka. “I didn’t have enough time to train y—no, I’m not say—” He raises an eyebrow as the choir defiantly backs all the way against the wall. They sing a very pretty song loudly, for almost three minutes. I have no idea what the words mean, but the choir made their point: they can sing loudly enough to easily fill the theater vocally. A four-person choir! This theater seats fifty people. It’s small, but I am impressed with the choir.  
“Hey, what’s the name of the song?” I ask the alto as the orchestra sets up.  
“Ladom se. It’s in Bosnian. It’s a Balkans folk song, so it’s at least fortissimo.”

I sit down as she walks off. Even after the orchestra finishes warming up, I’m not nervous. Weird. Half an hour later, the theater is full. My family is—sitting with my remaining roommates. I am terrified. “You okay?” Annika whispers. “My boyfriend doesn’t realize he’s sitting with my parents! They don’t know each other, and this—they’re seeing each other for the first time at one of my performances!”  
“It could be so much worse,” Amarion reminds me dryly.  
“Amarion, what did your sister do to her hair?” Yehuda gasps. “She was so beautiful!”  
“Jamisha straightened her hair…Yehuda! She’s my sister!”  
“I know.” Yehuda sounds miserable. “I yearn from afar.”  
“Yeah, and yearning’s all you’re gonna do—”  
Silence ripples through the theater as Iruka raises his baton. “Let’s jam,” Gloria declares quietly, so only we can hear. That, more than a director’s raised baton, has always been our cue to perform.  
I steal glances at audience members during performances. That is was matters to me. The audience is glued to the performance the entire time. They understand what the titles of the songs referred to. I was hoping they would.  
I find standing ovations trite. This time is no exception. I find thunderous applause quite satisfying. This time is no exception. The performance raised at least five hundred dollars, I know that from ticket sales. I hope they’ll call us and tell us the final number somehow.

“Hey Sasuke.”  
“Huh.”  
“So it’s going to be awkward for you about your boyfriend and your parents.”  
Where is Yehuda going with this?  
“I shall profess my love for Jamisha. It’s gonna be awkward. Come with me. We can be awkward together.” We put our stuff back in the green room first.  
Yehuda transforms into a terrified twelve-year-old as he walks to Amarion’s sister. I move behind a few people so I can hear but don’t look too creepy. I salute Yehuda. It’s his code for us to be brave, so I’m doing it to him. It feels bizarre, but this is not about me. My thumb is warm on my forehead. I lower my hand as Yehuda nods to me and squares his shoulders. He tries to relax. I pretend to look for someone after Jamisha smiles. She knows who Yehuda is. I scan the crowd for Amarion as Jamisha compliments Yehuda on the performance. Amarion’s probably still putting his stuff away, or flirting with Annika.  
“—and I just wanted to tell you I’ve had a crush on you for two years. Have a good evening.” Yehuda turns to go. Jamisha touches his arm. He freezes. I step forward. “That’s it?” the tall, elegant woman asks playfully. “Uh…” He blushes. I walk to his side. “Yehuda’s free Sunday.” I nudge him a little. He has done the same for me. “Yeah, I um…my phone number—” He collects himself and rattles off the digits. Jamisha texts him. He beams. “Sasuke,” my brother calls. I excuse myself and walk over to him. He pats me on the head.

“You were hiding from us!” My mom hugs me. She misses me a lot. The feeling is mutual. “I wasn’t. I was there for a friend as moral support. Thanks for coming.”  
“I always liked your concerts.” My dad hugs me too. They hug me a lot now that I hardly speak to or visit them. Tonight is special, though. “Thanks for ignoring us.” Naruto appears beside Itachi. “Introduction time!” Mitch and Nahum are suddenly next to my parents. Everybody mingles and I don’t know whether to roll my eyes or be terrified.  
“Sasuke.”  
“Jesus, Amarion, you scared me!”  
“You’re high-strung…we’re heading out soon. C’mon.”  
“A few more minutes.”  
“Okay.”

It consists of post-concert small talk and the explanation that I’m going to an after-party. I’ll call. Everybody says okay. My roommates roll their eyes when I tell them I’ll be back in the morning. I don’t remember if Oxford members sleeping somewhere else for a night breaks the rules. Or just even our house rules. I hug and thank my family again, then thank my roommates.  
“That was really cool.”  
“I had fun.”  
“Thanks for inviting us.” They disappear into the crowd, all six talking amongst themselves. Anton and I walk backstage. My hands are shaking. He puts my violin case in the van. “Sorry,” I mutter.

“Better than a shattered violin. Look, some people just get weird sometimes after concerts. Family can be tough.” We buckle our seatbelts.  
“Welcome to par-tay central!” Gloria shouts, spreading her arms as we follow her into the foyer. “Okay, Megan, I did it.” Her friend laughs. Gloria clears her throat. “So everyone, your instruments are safely locked away and you can get them when you leave. Now, is everyone—good.” We follow her down the stairs. The layout of this house is really similar to the Oxford house. “So, those t-shirts and sweatpants everyone so kindly dropped off before the concert are here in separate pules. There’s a bathroom here and two others in the house. Please get changed.”

“Why?” the alto asks. Gloria grins. One of the guys bolts into the bathroom. Damn it. “It’s easier to cope with stained generic clothes than with stained concert clothes.”  
“What kind of stains?”  
Oh, there’s a line now? Ugh. Well, it won’t take long.  
“Junk food. Popcorn. Pizza, soda, breadsticks…” Annika tries to remember what else and looks at me. I shrug. Ten minutes later, Gloria gleefully reminds us. “And a bottle of wine for our resident snob! Plenty for others, should you care to imbibe.” I hate wine. Yehuda reads the label and smiles. “Aw, thank you. You didn’t have to do all that.”  
“Did, too. You and your fancy wine.” She hugs him. “My parents insist. 2008 was a better year.”  
“Your parents drink vinegar.”  
Gloria flounces away after attempting to ruffle his hair.

“And now…we shall relive our childhoods.” Megan sets up the DVD player. We groan. “Just the movie part.” The other performers and I sit in front of the screen. “Any bets on who’s going to spill what food first?” Amarion asks. “Yeah, the wine—ow! Fine. Not Yehuda, not the wine.”  
“Annika, the—give me back my soda. Thank you. I hate this game.”  
“That’s why I never play,” I remark.  
“You first violinists are always such sanctimonious brats!”  
“Yeah, ask my roommates.” We laugh. “Hey, can you turn it up—thanks.”  
Megan spills soda on her shirt halfway through the first movie. We watch the movies of the soundtrack parts we played. There’s a lot of dialogue recitation, singing and laughing. Some “ssh, this is a good part!” to stifle chatter. In between every movie, we all talk for an hour before Megan remembers to put in the next one. “Hey, we can stay the night, right?” the tenor, whose name I remember as Justin, slurs midway through the beginning of the second movie. Gloria nods and whispers something reassuringly. Probably “I drive people home,” or “No need to worry about sobering up,” but “The bathroom is right there,” would also probably make him feel better. Megan’s phone rings. It turns out the benefit raised over three thousand dollars.


	18. Chapter 18

-Naruto-  
I want to bang my head against the wall in frustration, but I’m at work. Acting is a relatively stable job! Temp jobs are not! Temp jobs take relatively little brainpower. The ones I work, anyway. Whatever pays my rent…I sigh and return to the files. I’m not bored, I’m not! Three hours to go. It takes an hour for me to get to Snapdragon’s theater by bus. Okay, it’s not her theater, but she’s worked there since the theater remade itself three years ago. She is indispensable. Even with the economy how it is, they gave her a raise at the end of her first year. They were scared she’d leave.

She was my favorite director at the youth theater, although during my first year there, I was terrified of her. The second year, I had warmed up to her considerably. I left to go to a different theater several years later, since I was about to age out anyway. I sniffled. So did she. We hugged. She wrote a letter of recommendation for me to get into Cornish. We’ve been in contact on and off since. I called her a week ago and hesitantly asked if she did voice training, and for how much. She had worked on Broadway for ten years and taught over here in Cornish’s acting program for two, as well as other colleges in two-year stints. Teaching bored her, she explained. I know she would charge a triple-digit flat fee with all that experience—directing and composing mostly musical productions when you have Broadway and Cornish experience earns you that right.  
“I do a sliding scale for actors.”  
“Oh.” The surprise was evident in my voice.  
“We’ll figure it out. Grab a pen.”  
Today I’ll rehearse with her for the first time. I’m going to try and develop a falsetto as much as I can over the next three months. This could be problematic. I’ve sung tenor since halfway through puberty. If my voice is ruined because of this, I’ll cry. I don’t want to work temp jobs for the rest of my life.

“Naruto, you can take a break,” my boss reminds me gently. “Okay.” I stand up and shuffle to the break room, ramen cup in my hand. Offices whose break rooms have urns of boiling water get bonus points. Since I never know what to expect, I bring a salad and a ramen cup to work. Salad doesn’t need boiling. If I don’t eat the salad at work, I do at home. No point in letting it go bad. A few of my coworkers sit at the table, laughing about something and eating. We greet each other and chat a little. Bored…damn, I really want this next audition. Theatre isn’t boring. A stream of boiling water issues itself from the urn. I close the cover on the ramen and sit down.  
“Oh, fuck! Oh, sorry.”  
“We were waiting for you to swear.”  
“This hasn’t cooled yet! I don’t know if I burnt my mouth.”  
“We can feel more comfortable swearing around you now!”

One of the women leans forward. “I was a temp at a really small law firm for six months. At the end of my first week, I had kinda clued in to the heavy use of profanity by the attorneys and others when clients weren’t around.” Who knew. My coworkers and I burst out laughing. “By my third month, I swore left and right. The whole six months, though, nobody ever said the word ‘fuck.’”  
“Is that why you swear so much?”  
“You know it.”  
“I think swearing in anything is more common than we realize. It’s just behind closed doors,” my boss says. Those at the table turn in unison, not sure what to say. He’s a nice guy, but he can still fire us. “I hate copy machines. I try to be creative in my swearing, but I have creative limits.” My coworkers and I laugh in relief—he gets it. “If you’re at a place where you can’t swear, ever, like…the Evil Coffee Empire…” I begin. Everyone nods. They know exactly which company I’m talking about. “Smile at the rude, harried businessmen. Decaf tastes just like regular—” I raise my voice a little over the uproarious laughter. “And they will have no idea why, an hour later, they have a raging headache!”

Three hours later, I’m on the bus. Snapdragon’s having me rehearse at her house instead, since I’m not in any of the theater productions and other staff members got all bent out of shape. Thankfully the trip only takes one bus and I’m somewhat familiar with the area. I fish my phone out of my pocket after thanking the driver. I start walking to Snapdragon’s house. I know Sasuke’s number by heart. Not creepy, it’s just easy to memorize. “You wanna watch the game after dinner?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

“Sure, if nobody’s hogging the TV.”  
“Cool.” I rent stuff from Netflix constantly, so watching normal TV might be weird. Sasuke and I like a lot of the same series and watch together to catch up on them. I can’t shut up unless it’s a new episode on real TV or I’m watching a movie in a theater. Sasuke doesn’t mind. I asked once. He talks during commercials.  
“I haven’t watched a game in awhile. I get updates from Shikamaru and my orchestra friends.”  
“Who?” Has he mentioned these people before? No…  
“Um, Shikamaru’s my sponsor. He’s a hardass and a good guy. I play for fun in a string quintet…a quartet with a harp as the fifth.”  
“Violin,” I remember. I’ve heard him playing downstairs sometimes when I’m there late at night.  
“Yeah.”  
“Do you yell at the TV too?”  
“Nah. At live games I yell, but not the TV. I insult the refs a lot.”  
I laugh and dig in my other pocket. “I yell.”  
“I figured.”  
I pause to double-check the address on the scrap of paper in my hand. This is it. “Hey Sasuke, I have to go. I’ll be home by nine.”  
“Do the curfew enforcers know?”  
“Yes, they do,” I sigh. I told Nate and Jeremy this morning. They said okay. “It’s one of those ‘just let us know,’” they told me. I think it’s because I’ve been clean so long. “So, see you then.”  
“Okay. Bye.” We hang up. I pout briefly that he didn’t say “looking forward to it” or something. Is that an expectation? This is tough to navigate. I’m glad he told me this should go slow.

I walk up the wide, gray steps of the building, wondering why there are four large, white pillars on the sides of the steps. Does the complex need that much structural support? I think it’s just for show. Everything about this is either big or wide. The entrance doors. The lobby. Tacky artwork hangs above a fireplace. The floors are hardwood. I wonder, if there was some kind of mechanical glitch, if the fireplace would burn the floor. I mean, maybe the fake fire is hot or something. Pulling out my cell phone, I look over at the silver elevators. “I’m here.”  
“Okay. I’ll be there.” And she is. Turns out she lives on the first floor. I wouldn’t have guessed, and I feel really out of place in a luxury apartment complex. The address should have tipped me off. This part of Belltown is high-end. Why does she live here? Probably because she can. She opens the door and I close it behind me. My skin tingles as she gives me a brief tour of the apartment. Every room except the kitchen is huge. The kitchen is the size of a postage stamp and tucked away. There is no wall separating the dining room from the living room, so it’s one big space. Ever the bathroom is fancy. Three people could comfortably live here at once, and it’s a one-bedroom.

“You want some water?”  
“Sure.” I know how this goes. I remember exactly where I was when I learned about it—in a fancy, medium-sized dressing room putting my makeup on. “You drink water first, then milk. It nourishes the vocal cords,” explained Emil as he touched up his eyeliner. “They tell you not to do it during rehearsals because people don’t know that they need to gargle with lemon juice afterward.”  
“Couldn’t I drink lemonade?”  
“Too much sugar.” This was…I don’t remember how many years ago. I had a huge crush on Emil and knew better than to ask if it was mutual. He was ten years older, I remember that. He told me so many things I’ve used in my acting career. I’ve done the water-milk-lemon juice routine before every rehearsal and performance since, and I do think it works. Snapdragon grins when I ask for milk, and laughs a little as she pulls out a container of lemon juice. “You sure know all the little tricks.”  
“Well, a smart guy taught me.”  
We walk over to the upright piano against the wall in the living room. Snapdragon fusses with her long, wavy hair. She hasn’t cut it since before I met her. She says it will begin to thin soon and she would like to keep it. “But you’re not even sixty yet!” someone blurted out. Snapdragon had heaved a sigh. “It used to be light brown. I started going gray at fifty-two and have been dying my hair green ever since. I am not having it thin out, too. It stays long.” She tucks it now into a ponytail, twists up it and secures at the back of her neck. “The two hours begin now,” Snapdragon announces grandly. Just like the first time we met, she begins by testing my vocal range and declaring me a tenor. She turns to me. “As always, breathe.”

I walk through the door like an elephant three hours later and zoom to the TV. I flop down next to Sasuke and explain what vocal rest is. He nods. When I tell the rest of the guys, they laugh. “Minimal talking in a quiet voice and entire days of total silence, how will you manage?” I make the ‘whatever’ sign with my hands. I can’t think of anything else to do. They laugh more. I’m too tired to flip them off. “Commercial’s over!” Sasuke calls. I walk back to him. My silence feels odd and is really loud to me. I will be doing this three days a week until the audition, which is two months away. I will practice singing two hours a day except Fridays and weekends. On those days, I will just be so quiet…singing falsetto is really hard. I don’t know how far I’ll get, but I’ll sure as hell be amazing at whatever I do get to!  
My team loses. I pout over leftovers. “Not talking…I do it a lot.” Sasuke is trying to comfort me. “It’s not uncommon for me to go three days without talking. I can go five.”  
“Naruto can’t,” Kiba teases. It’s true. I slump and look at the clock, then mime sleeping at Sasuke. He nods. We somehow communicate “goodnight” to each other. I should start carrying around a notepad.

The next morning at work, I do. I write out the explanation. Everyone’s fine with it. I don’t have a lot of client contact anyway. My not talking starts a pantomime game. It’s fun. Turns out two of my coworkers know ASL, and they sign to each other all day. They sign to me a little, and all I can sign is, “Hi, my name is Naruto.” I fingerspell my name very carefully. They grin. Someone asks if we should stop since pantomime could be mean in this situation. “No, we’re just happy to be signing to each other. You were having fun before we started.”  
“The paperwork won’t finish itself,” my boss calls from his office. It winds up being the most productive day I’ve had in a long time. But…if this is all filing is…

A week later, I start my new job as a dishwasher. No more filing! No more boredom! I miss some of the people in the office, but this so much cooler! Dishwashing is very movement-oriented, especially during the lunch rush. I can pay attention, now. I pay attention much easier when I’m moving around. The job is very physical. I lift tubs of dishes that weigh as much as twenty-five pounds and scrub out giant pots at the end of the evening shifts. Sometimes I have to—not run, but almost. It’s incredibly dangerous. People fall so hard that they injure their backs, or even spines, all the time. I handle the heavy hoses easily and figure out what pulling too hard, or too gently, does. It’s kinesthetic learning, learning by doing. I don’t need a gym membership anymore. I need more deodorant and a spare change of clothes in a bag or something.  
Dishwashing is very physical. In the beginning, it tires me out. The way the buses work right now, I can’t make it to meetings in time anyway. Nahum starts picking me up from work and we go right to the meeting. I change into a clean t-shirt immediately. I smell gross, but even worse if I leave my uniform shirt on. I’m usually wet too. I don’t mind at all—my job is a blast! Even when I get so tired that Nahum gently nudges me awake in meetings, and has to carry me into the house a couple of times, it’s worth it.


	19. Chapter 19

-Naruto-  
“Hey, Kiba. I’m glad you called. What’s up?”  
“We are not actually playing the game of ‘Let’s see how many Seattle-area members of Narcotics Anonymous we can invite to our wedding.’ It’s modest. Should I send you and Sasuke just one invitation? I know you’re going to be here together.”  
“Um…” Doesn’t that mean relationships are serious? Is it okay to bring someone who you’ve only been dating a little over nine months, to a wedding? I’ve only been to family members’ weddings, and I stopped going to them when I was fifteen. Nobody was getting married anymore. Well, Kiba wants us both to come, so I guess the answer’s yes.  
“Yeah, I guess one will be fine. I’ll show it to him when it’s here. Congratulations.”  
“Thanks,” he says slowly. He sighs. “When I moved out, I was just…so aware that my dog and my girlfriend were all I had left, and I’m so glad it’s—it’s going to be okay now. We’ve been engaged awhile. They say not to make big decisions in the first year of sobriety but we’re…just continuing our original plans.”  
“You nervous?”  
“Absolutely not. I want to marry her in five seconds.”  
I laugh a little and we talk for awhile. I miss him a lot. We don’t really hit the same meetings anymore, but people change which meetings they go to, all the time. Kiba’s and Hinata’s wedding will be traditionally Shinto, which means the invitations that are sent out, are really for the reception immediately following. They tend to be huge and fancy. My family’s Buddhist. We’ve never actually talked about what a Buddhist wedding looks like. Our family’s largely agnostic. I’ll be learning more about my culture, even just going to Kiba’s and Hinata’s reception. I don’t really know what to expect.

“I can’t read this,” Mitch hollers down the hall to me. I trot up the stairs. “The invitation’s bilingual. The bottom part is in Kanji. It says what the English text says. The address is at the bottom.”  
“Why bilingual?”  
“Well, maybe some of their family members prefer to read Kanji,” I say pointedly. Mitch narrows his eyes in confusion, then shrugs and says okay. “Which one of us is supposed to RSVP? We’re on the same invitation, Naruto.” Sasuke asks me.  
“Me, or…it’s addressed to me.”  
“Oh.”  
“What do either of you know about Shinto weddings? Is that how it’s pronounced?” Nahum turns his invitation over to see if there’s anything else on it.  
“Yes. Um, the marriage ceremony is very private and performed before the reception, which is what we’re going to. Dress formally. The wedding is performed by a priest. Kiba told me this priest has tattoos, so he’s not judging.”  
I gasp as Nahum laughs. “Yeah, he’d be happy about that.”  
“Nahum, those—they both have gang tattoos.”  
“Wait, what?”

Sasuke and I look at each other, then at Nahum. We patiently explain how tattoos indicate gang membership—yakuza membership in particular, and it’s a serious thing in Japan. I try to explain what it means in America accordingly, and Sasuke comes up with a slightly better explanation. “The priest’s sleeves likely cover his tattoos, if they are on his arms. He is a former member, I can tell you that without even knowing him. Priests aren’t usually yakuza, I mean. People can spend a lot of time covering tattoos up. When someone has any, other people won’t even go into the same bathhouse as them.”  
“Why not?”  
“They’re scary,” is kind of a lame explanation, but easy.  
“Oh.”  
“So at the reception, Hinata will be introduced.”  
“We already know her. Sort of.”  
“Well, she’s getting introduced anyway. It’s how it goes. She’s keeping her last name.”  
“Kiba’s okay with that?”  
“She doesn’t care what he thinks. It’s not his name, not his choice.”  
“There’s going to be a lot of speeches. People will introduce themselves in the speeches, and talk about how they met Kiba or Hinata.”

“Do I have to make a speech?”  
“No. And everybody will mingle, too. I mean, it’s a party. Everyone will get to know each other. Shinto receptions can go on for awhile. Kiba says theirs will be fairly Western. He suggested it to her, he said.”  
“Probably because—”  
“Stop,” I command sharply, before he can continue. The reception will be Westernized because they both agreed on it, not because there’s going to be white people there.

Two weeks later, everyone trots around the house getting ready. “Mitch! You wear that to your church every Sunday! This is a wedding! What are you doing?”  
“No, this is different. I’m wearing a tie, and my shirt’s a different color.”  
“Oh yeah, so different,” I scoff. I fish my ringing phone from my pocket. “Good morning, Sakura.”  
“Hi, Naruto. After the wedding, I’m going away with my boyfriend for a few days.”  
My heart thuds.  
“You’ll call Tsunade. She knows who you are. Don’t worry. It’s going to be okay. Lee and I will be back Monday evening.”  
“Oh, well…have fun…”  
“We will. I’ll see you at the wedding.”

Nowadays, people have hundreds of people at their weddings and that’s considered normal. These people would absolutely flip if they saw that there were eighty people at Kiba’s and Hinata’s wedding reception. Maybe thirty are from A.A., Al-Anon, N.A., and Nar-Anon, we discover as we introduce ourselves. The rest are members of Kiba’s and Hinata’s families and non-program friends. Sasuke waves someone over, a friend of his. He’s tall and his hair is in a ponytail. I feel a little bit better—I put my hair in spikes this morning. I recently got a haircut, but yeah, I worried about how spiky hair would look at a good friend’s wedding. Sasuke got a haircut too. His hair sticks up in the back. I wonder if that was intentional.  
“This is Shikamaru. He’s my sponsor. He’s been putting up with me for nearly three years. This is Naruto. We’ve been dating almost a year.” Sasuke looks a little nervous as he says the last part.  
“Hi.” We shake hands. “How’d you meet Kiba, or Hinata?” Which one did he meet first?  
“I met Kiba in an AA meeting a long time ago, and Hinata only when she was driving Kiba to a meeting.”  
“Cool.” So they go about four years back. We talk about who else we know at the wedding, and it’s a lot of small talk between a lot of people. Mostly recovery stuff.

Hinata blushes when she’s introduced, but she can’t stop smiling. Kiba is just beaming. Their parents start crying as they give the first two speeches. Some friends, some family do, too. It’s standard wedding stuff, but it’s…different. Kiba’s going through a life event that not many addicts get to, so early, and Hinata has been by his side through everything. With so many speeches and so many people, I feel like there’s only so much to say. I’m trying not to get bored; a good friend of mine is married! But “We met, you’re great, congratulations,” only has so many variants. There’s dancing and a lot of food, though. That’s fun. Sasuke turns out to be a pretty good dancer. So are Sakura and Tsunade. Sakura’s boyfriend, or at least I think he is, has short black hair and is a very enthusiastic dancer. He’s having fun. I shouldn’t judge. It takes awhile for Tsunade’s boyfriend to agree to dance. “Just one, and it’s not even slow,” she wheedles. He sighs and runs a hand through his gray hair, then straightens his tie. “Twelve step meetings are full of terrible dancers, anyway,” Lee tells him. Several N.A. people crack up laughing.

The sun has begun to set when Kiba and Hinata give thank-you speeches. I crawl into the back of the car half an hour later, tired but happy. That was so cool to watch. I want to do that someday. I look over at Sasuke. I want to get married, or just settle down someday. I try not to think about it too much. My audition is tomorrow. I’ll think about that instead. I might wind up in New York, if I get this. I might stay there. I could make it.

I wear the same orange t-shirt and dark jeans to every audition. I wash the clothes right when I get home. I wear them to callbacks too. There aren’t callbacks this time. There’s no paperwork, no handouts. I warmed up for an hour before I got here. I’m twenty minutes early. Five minutes too early. Snapdragon won’t care. She might need help setting up. She knows me and how I audition. “Come in! Monologue first, then music, I take it?”  
“You know me.” I wave the sheet music over my head.  
“Is this the one that makes you laugh, or the one in which you sing a duet with yourself and show off your falsetto?”  
“The happy one. I stopped laughing. I can sing it now.”  
“Indulge me and sing the duet with yourself, Naruto. The training—”  
I launch into song immediately. She grins.

There is no panel to say hi to, nor an X to stand on. “Okay, camera’s on. Break a leg.”  
I take a deep breath and introduce myself, my monologue and the music to the camera. Can the camera see my hands shaking? Breathe. Wait. Talk. I’m not reciting the monologue anymore—I’m asking Sasuke a huge favor. “So will you come to Alaska with me?” I freeze as I end the monologue—I really am asking Sasuke to New York, if I get this role, and the way I’m asking him…is plagiarism. I have to re-do the whole speech. But right now I’m going to sing.

I had old theater friends help me with this one. It took me awhile to relax, because I found the idea of actually doing it funny. My friends got really into it. They pawed at me when we were rehearsing. When they started meowing, I had to sit down, I was laughing so hard. Getting to an audition point with this song was tough. My voice—stops. I know that’s how the song is (in my mind) but it’s—“Thank you.” I look directly in front of me. Focus, even though I finished. There is no panel to ask me questions or for alternate songs, or to improvise something. I just send it in and wait. Someone’s alternate song, a year ago or something, was from a popular vampire movie soundtrack. It was the wedding song. At least I think it was played during the wedding. It’s a great song, but we have to sing stuff from Broadway musicals. The actress got into the production. Nepotism was a factor, but it’s common in some theaters. Two of the panelists had also been bribed. They were fired. The actress hasn’t been hired since.

Cornish could never see my criminal record. I dwell on this two weeks later. I lived at home while I was at Cornish, saved thousands of dollars as a result, and also got a bunch of financial aid. This was narrowly before the economic meltdown. I check my e-mail and stare in disbelief at the screen as my phone alerts me that I have a voicemail. The voicemail says the same thing.  
I burst into tears.  
I got in.

“We need to talk.”  
“Why?” Sasuke asks stiffly, pulling away from me. I had sobbed in his arms when I got the news. I couldn’t tell him. Now, a few hours later, I have to. This changes everything. We might not stay together. How do you ask someone to move three thousand miles away from the only state they’ve lived in? I don’t want to leave him behind. A lot of actors leave their partners to do this. They leave their families. They leave everyone. It is only phone calls, for awhile. Will I be able to sleep? Will I find someone else in New York? Will Sasuke cry after this? Will I, during? I will miss him so much. He was my first relationship sober, really. He means a lot to me. I want him with me.  
“How are your temp jobs?”  
“Fine,” he responds cautiously, mistrusting.  
“Anything long-term?”  
“Six months as a secretary, and helping close files at a firm.” His voice is weird. He moves further away.

I reach for his hands. They are so cold. I move towards him. “Stop that,” he grumbles. This is…not going how I wanted it to. I try to look him in the eye, but he avoids my gaze. Last night we looked at each other. It was…I like him. I like how he makes me feel. Hanging onto this, I take a deep breath and start talking for our relationship, for me, for my recovery. I feel like I’m falling from something and the safety net might not catch me.  
“I want you to know…you give me so much. I stay clean so I can be present for you, and give.”  
He looks at me, just observes me. I run a hand through his hair, and rest my hand on his shoulder afterward. “I’m always excited to go to your concerts, and I’m so happy when you come to my plays.” He smiles a little. I’m about to break his heart. Or mine. “Some of the happiest memories I’ve had are with you. The stupid, mundane stuff, the romantic fast-food dinners before meetings—” We both laugh a little. “I want to keep those. Sasuke…you make me feel like a man. Like I matter to more than just my parents and people in recovery. You make me feel like I’m doing something in the world, somehow, just listening to me when I am supporting newcomers.”

Oh great. I’m crying. I need to keep touching him. This might be the last time. I booked my plane ticket and made all the arrangements I needed to. I leave tomorrow. I’m packed. It’s all me, now. “I’m…going…Broadway is in New York. I’m leaving, Sasuke.”  
He shakes his head. He might be crying. My boyfriend takes a breath. There are tears.  
“I can’t bear the thought of being without you, even though this is huge. I want you to know that I love you, and—if you’re scared of flying. Sasuke—”  
Breathe deep.  
I can survive a breakup sober.  
“Will you come to New York with me?”  
“Yes,” he whispers.

We have the second-longest conversation of our relationship, and take so many notes. It takes a long, long time, and there’s a lot of emotion. I stop in the middle of it all to call Sakura.  
“Naruto! I leave with my boyfriend for one weekend and come back to this?! What!”  
“Well, I uh, he uh.”  
“I’m here when you come back, and when you break up.”  
“That’s…a backhanded compliment.”

I call my parents and start bawling. My parents start screaming excitedly. Sasuke calls his sponsor, Shikamaru, and curls into a ball for an hour, not moving. “I don’t want to let him go,” he explains through tears. “He knows someone in New York, and I have to call him. This guy’s name is Neji. I don’t want to do this.”  
“Pick up the phone, Sasuke.” I speak bravely even though I want to hide. We’re really doing this.  
It is three o’clock in the morning when we’re done. At four in the morning, Nahum drops us off at the airport. Sasuke printed out his ticket earlier. Nahum keeps looking at us in the rearview mirror, and finally says we are welcome to come back if it doesn’t work out. Everybody hugs. Sea-Tac Airport is huge, and we need to move quickly, though. We have only an hour till the flight leaves.

Security is actually quick. The flight is on time. It’s so weird. Sasuke falls asleep twenty minutes after the flight takes off. He’s not scared, apparently. Not scared of going across the country. Not scared to be in such an expensive city, to take so many risks just for a boyfriend. Just exhausted.  
The plane touches down seven hours later. I lean over and shake Sasuke awake. “How long was I out?” he groans. “Almost the entire flight,” I explain gently. A flight attendant walks by and smiles.  
“Oh fuck, I drooled.” He wipes his face. “You didn’t see that.”  
“Of course not,” I laugh a little. “I wouldn’t care, even if you had.”  
“True love.” We laugh and walk off.

This is it. We’re starting a new life together.


End file.
